He almost made it. His door was only a few paces away when he finally doubled over and vomited onto the tarmac of the motel parking lot, leaning on the bonnet of the sleek black car beside him for support. He just barely had the presence of mind to turn away from it. He didn't need a punch-up over getting his lunch onto somebody's pride and joy.

The fit passed and he spat a couple of times, grey hair hanging in his face. It had got hold of his hair, pulled it free of its pony tail... the thought made him retch anew. That thing's fingers on him, its eyes...

A significant throat-clearing mercifully interrupted his mind's near-panicked circlings. Wary, he took a moment to wipe the vomit out of his beard, then straightened up just a little slowly, allowing himself time to assess the throat's owner. Sturdy boots, well-worn jeans, brown leather over a black t-shirt, gold amulet. What really caught his attention was the man's posture. His feet were planted shoulder width apart, hands hanging casually free, ready to move if needed. This man knew how to handle himself in a fight, Manny was sure.

Finally he initiated eye contact, unsurprised to meet a coolly assessing gaze that left him in no doubt he was being sized up just as thoroughly. There was a brief glance down as he reached his full height and the stranger presumably noted that, even given a couple of extra inches by the motel's walkway, he still had to look up to meet Manny's eye. If that fazed him, he hid it well.

"Is it your car? I'm sorry, I meant no harm."

The other man didn't answer right away; he was frowning slightly, his gaze now directed downwards, at the right hand that had recently rested on the car. Then one of the motel's doors opened and another figure emerged. "Dean -."

The new man was taller than the first – barely shorter than Manny himself – and younger, but his gait suggested he was no less a fighter. 'Dean' glanced at him, twitched his head ever so slightly before turning back to Manny, and the younger man's face took on a similar frown as he too eyed the hand that definitely hadn't been on the car at any point when he'd been there to see it.

Manny brought his arm up to see what was going on. Stared. Wondered idly when it would start to hurt and was answered with an ugly throb, then glanced at the bloody smear on the black bonnet. Tried and failed to recall any other time he'd gone so long without noticing he was bleeding.

"Oh," he said finally. Then, "Excuse me, I think I need to sit down."

"Come inside. You should let me put something on that." The younger man gestured towards the room he'd come out of, then exchanged glances with Dean, who looked none too pleased but simply muttered, "If he yaks again, I ain't cleaning it up."

Manny hesitated. There were so many complications, but at the end of the day refusing aid would probably raise the most suspicion. Resignedly he readied his falsehoods as he walked past the two men and into a room that, though clean, was as shabby as his own, with two unopened overnight bags lying around; but he barely noted the faded, clashing decor as he sank into the nearest chair. Lying on the table beside him were a laptop bag and a two-day-old newspaper with an article circled. He didn't need to read it; he had his own copy.

Hunters, then. Damn. Under different circumstances he'd have walked away – far away – and let them handle it.

The younger man closed the door and started digging in one of the bags. Dean was still outside – making a certain bloodstain disappear, Manny was willing to bet.

"I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Winchester."

"Manny MacLear."

Sam came up with a bulging first-aid kit, then pushed aside the table's contents and meticulously arranged swabs, disinfectant and bandages before sitting down and taking Manny's proffered arm. The green checked sleeve was ripped and soaked through with blood, the cuff button gone and the bite mark still oozing slightly. Sam attended to it with practised ease, not commenting either on the thin, faded scar running most of the length of the forearm, or on the slight skew in the third and fourth fingers which spoke of a badly-healed break.

"It's a nasty bite," he said. "What happened?"

"Let's not beat about the bush, shall we?" Manny nodded at the newspaper.

Sam glanced at him shrewdly, a hint of amusement flitting across his face. "You came here looking for it?"

"Yes, I always keep an eye out for reports of dead men walking. It's a MacLear thing."

"Family business, huh?"

"Not that there's much family to speak of these days. You're after it as well, then?"

The answer was forestalled by Dean's reappearance. "Nice bike. Shouldn't leave your keys in the ignition," he said.

Manny's free hand snapped out instinctively to intercept the tossed keyring. "Thank you."

"Dean, this is Manny. Manny, my brother Dean. We were just talking about that article."

Dean dumped himself onto the nearest bed. "About that angler who reckons somebody tried to eat him?"

"And even though he's sporting some lovely bite marks, everybody thinks he's nuts." Sam briskly tied off the gauze and started packing away.

"But certain folks suspect something different," said Manny. "May I wash my hands?"

"Sure."

He rose and eased his bulk into a bathroom which was surely cramped even to the average-sized human. Taking his time over scrubbing away the blood and dirt, he considered tactics. It would be tough to run these two off now they knew there was a case here – and he'd hardly enhanced his credibility with the vomiting-in-terror introduction. Did he want them gone, anyway? It might turn out he could use the help. But he'd have to be careful. On the rare occasions when he'd encountered hunters, they didn't react well if they realised his true nature.

The thought of not telling them what he knew drifted across his mind only to be sternly rejected. They ought to be informed before they got into it. If they put two and two together now he'd been stupid enough to use his real name... well, maybe they'd be reasonable.

As he went to turn the tap off, he found himself fumbling. His hands were shaking. He glared at them, trying to summon up a few last reserves to make it stop. The shaking subsided but there was still a faint tremor. He sighed and pulled off his bloodied shirt to use it as a towel. The Mad Sunday t-shirt beneath was thankfully little the worse for wear – just a few bits of honest dirt here and there.

He took a breath and extricated himself from the bathroom. "Gentlemen. Might I suggest we repair to that steak house next door? I think I know what we're up against."

The brothers swiftly exchanged glances at the word we; but if they cared to debate the matter, they said nothing just yet.