AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! A sequel! Thanks to everyone who read Ghost in the Machine. Hope you enjoy this one as well. I've been planning it for a while ;) I will be switching between Sam's POV and Dean's POV for this one, so I'd advise paying attention to the names in brackets at the beginning of each chapter.

"top dead center": the furthest point of a piston's travel, at which it changes from an upward stroke to a downward one

CHAPTER ONE

[POV: DEAN WINCHESTER]

At exactly 1:03 a.m. cruising at 82 mph on Interstate 10 in Phoenix, Arizona, something happened to the Impala.

There was no warning she was gonna go dark. No splutter of the engine, no burning fluid-smell, no flickering of lights. Sure, I'll admit I nursed a few too many bottles that night, so I guess it's possible I missed something, but still. She just blacked out. Went completely under in a matter of nanoseconds. I slapped a hand down on the steering wheel, foot slipping over the useless gas pedal as the dead car coasted through the desert heat, quiet as a two-ton machine with no power could be.

"Baby?" I fought with the wheel as I tried to drag her over to the shoulder. She didn't have a great turning radius anyway and it was damn near impossible to pull her off the interstate without help. My head buzzed with alcohol and the aftereffects of my recent concussions, and with clenched teeth, I wrestled with the Impala, both feet planted firmly on the heavy brake pedal.

She kinda came back as her tires vibrated through the rumble strips on the shoulder. No lights, no nothin', just her familiar voice in my head. …Dean?

I flexed a hand on the wheel. "I'm here."

Something's… wrong. Headlights flickered, failed again. I sat there, trying to collect my thoughts. Had to get flashlight and toolbox from trunk. Call Sam, tell him we'd broken down, and I'd be spending the night on the side of the Interstate, waiting for daylight (and sobriety) so I could fix Baby.

"You good?" I felt around for my phone, found it in the back pocket of my jeans, brought it to eye level and turned the screen on. Huh. Guess the battery was dead. I tossed it onto the seat.

I feel… not… right. The Impala spoke haltingly. She sounded drugged.

I straightened up, pressing a palm flat on the cold dashboard. Was my car shaking? Slight tremors ran through her big metal body, vibrating my hand, and my face hardened in concern. "What hurts?"

Can't tell.

"Ok. I gotcha." I put a hand on the door, made sure no traffic was gonna sideswipe and kill me, and pushed my way into the heavy Sonoran heat. The ground swayed for a second, but I got it under control by grabbing onto the Impala's doorframe to ground myself. "Hang tight," I said to her, and she just wheezed through her exhaust in response. Fear coiled in my gut; I knew I could fix whatever had gone wrong with her, but nobody likes to see their loved ones in pain.

When I stepped away from her, something strange happened.

I don't know what caused me to look up, but I did, and there it was: and old muscle car parked a few lengths ahead, idling hot with headlights dark. When did that get there? I squinted at the white car, admiring the shape of the low-slung chassis. Flipping through my mental index of cars, I matched it: Pontiac Firebird, if the blood-red phoenix decal on the hood was anything to go by, late-70s body style with a pointed front end and square headlights peering from the honeycomb grille.

I was drawn to it. I took a step, then another and another, crossing the distance on the sandblasted interstate, because there was a magnet inside of me now, coaxing me toward that white Firebird.

Dean! Behind me, the Impala's motor hitched, failed when it didn't catch. Dean, don't…!

I ignored her. The closer I got to the Firebird, the stronger its pull became. It called to me, except it didn't actually speak, not like Baby. I just… felt it there, and I knew it wanted me. My boots crunched over gravel, sand, busted glass, and I stood in front of the Firebird, transfixed by the heat waves radiating from the grille, the hood seams, distorting the moonlit traffic lines on the freeway.

No, no, no, driver. Don't do it. Don't listen to it!

When I touched the Firebird, everything else went quiet. A heavy energy settled over me like a winter blanket, weighing down my shoulders, but not uncomfortably. A new buzz entered my system, like the just right point of being drunk off bourbon, and I felt… calm.

I stepped around the Firebird's grille and went for the driver's seat because I knew it wanted me to.

DEAN! NO!

The Firebird shut its door behind me, locked me inside of it, and I blacked out.