Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I wander this lonely road. I am so damn tragic. Everything goes to Kripke and WB. Lucky SOB's.

Oh my poor little muse, she must be suffering terribly from my whims and all that jazz.

Anyway, so it seems I somehow decided to create a spn Greek Myth AU with gods and monsters and the whole 'WOE TRAGEDY HOLY SHIT IM SO TRAGIC' hero mentality. Which is fun and angsty and all that.

So anyway, I lay down and you know when your brain does that thing where it's like 'fuck you I do what I want' and then you start thinking about random shit but you're too tired to separate it so it all merges and your like

"YES DAMN IM FANTASTIC"

And then you wake up the next morning and you are literally like the worst person in the world like your ideas were so shit and you just wonder how.

This is sort of like that, because I don't know if we should have characters portraying the gods or if they ARE the gods. Like, Ellen is the Goddess of Wisdom or 'The goddess Athena had dark brown eyes and a serious stare, but her lips made an easy smile and she had a soft, serious way of speaking. Se held herself like the world was hers to take.'

Anyway, chuck me a PM or Review.

(Review haha what)

And my early apology because this is sort of a boring chapter, setting a bit of stuff up.

CHAPTER 1: Renegade

Sam threw the package overhead and Dean leapt up and caught it, barreling through the marketplace, leaping over a stall that held muscles and other shelled aquatic animals.

He let out a laugh and looked across at Sam, who had sped up now that he wasn't holding the package. He glanced across and his eyes locked with Dean's.

He ran further and further and jumped and dived. Not a demigod, but he could outrun just about everyone, his little brother.

Dean? He relied on more of the brute strength, in your face, give me all your money sort of strength. He raced along now, the soldiers focusing on him, their eyes fixed on his sandaled feet and occupied hands.

"Sammy!"

Sam ran nearer to him, the younger Winchester breathing heavily. The soldiers were gaining on him, so he threw off the package across to Sam again, who caught it easily, weaving between the cramped stalls of the marketplace. The soldiers barged through after him, knocking down figs and olives, grains and cotton. A stall selling sheep and goat skin collapsed after a particularly heavy set soldier rampaged past, and the squat owner was left yelling after the man, waving his fist and jibbering away in some language that Dean didn't understand.

"Dean!"

Dean looked over and saw Sam dancing out of the tables and into relatively clear space. Dean reached out his arms and Sam tossed him the statue. The few guards left to chase Dean had slowed down considerably at this point; they all had. No one could be expected to keep up with them, not even trained soldiers of the kings guard.

Dean raced off with the statue, heading for the shorter, smaller streets in the very centre of town. It was their only hope of losing their tales. The brothers met up again.

they raced off together down the same street.

"Split up?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced down at the bundle in his arms. "Who's taking Problem Number One?"

Sam shot his brother a look.

Dean was starting to feel winded. "Can you take it?"

"I am faster," Sam agreed.

Dean scowled. "I didn't say that-"

"Now!"

Dean threw up the statue and Sam darted beneath it and caught it, racing off in the opposite direction that Dean had run. Dean hunched over, pretending to carry something so that when the soldiers glanced down, in the split second they had to make the decision, they'd send some after both.

Dean thought of what the soldiers would be able to do if they got to Sam and his blood turned cold. Preferably more following him.

"Sorry ma'am," Dean saluted, vaulting past a shop with a sign advertising hookers and cheap wine. The woman in question was too old to be a prostitute, so she must have been the wife of the owner. Nevertheless, she gaped as Dean dashed passed.

He ran around the corner, glanced back to see none of the soldiers had made it to it yet and ducked around another two. It was beautiful, these streets, they were intricate as a maze, perfect for Dean and his brother as they pushed each other along, dragging stolen things through the city centre.

Dean ran for another ten minutes, his breathing beginning to labour, the cramps in his calves heightening to near unbearable levels.

At long last, he hoisted himself up onto a roof and lay close to the surface, his stomach pushing against the sandstone.

He relaxed up there, sun beating down on his light brown hair, darkening his skin. He took deep breaths and waited to see if Sam would find him.

They did what they always did, went to the roofs and stood up.

Dean counted down. They had had 15 minutes each to lose their chasers. Since they'd started this, the time had gotten less and less until it was nearly impossible. Sam insisted they needed the challenge though, with a sort of savage grin.

Dean hadn't argued.

Now he regretted it, the seconds having run out, looking around for Sam. His brother had better of been captured, or else Dean had agreed to the stupid time limit for no reason.

Then, Dean squinted against the sun and looked across the white roofs, hand over his eyes to fend off the glare off the tops of all the houses, he thought he saw something. He frowned further and looked deeper into the day. Then he grinned and lay back.

Sam was standing and waving the fabric they'd stored the idol in like a flag, before dropping to all fours and then to his stomach, crouching on the roof.

Dean carefully, stood, waving his hand out, wondering if he should rip his tunic off to make some sort of memorable statement before thinking against it.

Sam glanced up and started making his way across to Dean. He leapt from roof to roof like a mountain goat, feet hitting across the passageways and alleys with an eerie confidence.

It anyone had seen Sam in action, with his odd precision, they would have said he were the demigod, rather than Dean.

Dean scowled up at the sky, where the king of the gods was probably watching him with the appropriate amount of angst and sarcasm as can be expected of an ancient, all powerful sky deity.

The king of the gods was called John.

Honestly, Dean thought it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, but he didn't like to go too deep into it, despite being the only one who probably could. Anyone else insult the boringness of 'John' and they'd probably wake up coughing their lung up. Literally.

"Sammy," Dean greeted. "Took you long enough."

Sam huffed and threw the idol at Dean's feet. "Wow. Thanks."

"I'm just sayin'," Dean shrugged, picking the statue up and taking Sam's makeshift flag out of his hands, wrapping the gold inside the hessian.

"So, we're done here?" Sam asked, huddling down awkwardly, keeping a careful eye on the marketplace and the other places that the soldiers would be able to see them should they look up from each other's finely chiselled chests for more than three seconds.

Dean nodded. "Done and dusted. Why? Meet someone?" Dean grinned. "You know, if it's a pig again...honestly Sam, most cultures aren't all that big on bestiality."

Sam shoved Dean and rolled his eyes. "You're hilarious."

Dean lead the way off the roof, nonchalant. "I am pretty great for a guy who's proof of the gods existence on Earth."

Sam sighed.

Dean and Sam made it off the roof easily, jumping down from window to floor, rolling so as to not break their ankles.

"So," Dean rubbed his hands together. "We taking the boat back? Or are we walking."

Sam actually looked torn. "If we take the boat, someone'll probably try to steal the statue."

"We'll sell it at the first port."

Sam grimaced. "We won't get a good price so close to the place we stole it, Dean."

Dean inclined his head. "True."

"If we walk the king will notice we've been gone for too long," Sam balanced, frowning and tapping his lip with his finger. He wasn't sure. They'd never been so far from home before. Normally walking was the obvious answer, because they only went to towns that were near their kingdom. But now they'd been forced to branch out after news had come to their king of two boys stealing things from temples.

The idol they'd taken had been from a tribute to the Sky God, so Dean didn't have too many qualms about it. Nothing bad ever really happened, mostly because Dean betted his dad made sure he could get to the age in order to fulfil his prophecy or whatever crap the gods yakked on about.

The only time anything had happened was the time Sam had removed a tribute to the Hunting Goddess from one of her temples and he'd nearly died from some mystery illness.

That had been terrifying, but it had eased off when Dean had threatened to kill himself.

Those had been an intense few weeks.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked the uncharacteristically quiet Dean.

"Just thinkin'," Dean said, wistful for days gone passed when they used to plan to every second, jumping in during the middle of the night paying off soldiers to raise the alarm in different parts of the city. Now all they needed was access and they were set.

Dean probably could have been worried about how easily he and Sam had become thieves, but all the money they'd collected from it had been worth it.

They were nearly there, nearly at enough where they could sneak off with their mother, present her as the widow she likely was (she never talked about Sam's father, and it got to a stage where they didn't want to ask) and they could start a life away from the king and his greedy eyes.

"I'm thinking..." Sam ran a hand through his growing hair. It hadn't been cut in a while and flicked around his ears. It made him look oddly young and must have been fucking hot to deal with in the Greek summer. he looked at Dean. "I think we should sail."

Dean blinked and nodded. "Sounds good to me. Why the change of heart, Rhea?"

Sam ignored the 'Rhea' comment and trudge along, picking up the pace a little. "We'll sell it when we make port at Athens."

Dean nodded his head. "Fair enough."

"Would it be too far to walk back from there?" Sam wondered. The brothers turned a corner and released a little tension when they saw that the next street was as empty as the one they'd been walking down.

"Depends," Dean said. "How long you tell the king we'd be gone?"

Sam recalled back to the day they'd asked to be granted a holiday. "Three weeks."

"I still can't believe he doesn't put our 'holidays' and the thieves together," Dean shook his head.

"Why?" Sam asked. "Because we yell each other's name every damn time? Or because we are literally the least subtle bastards to have ever sailed the Mediterranean, which, I don't know if you're aware, is a pretty massive title."

The two boys paused outside an open window and Dean hoisted Sam up so that he could push himself through. He toppled into the room and then stuck his hand down to help Dean up.

"I say we lie low for a few days, and then go," Sam said, flopping down onto his bed in the Inn. They'd booked themselves in here and planned their daring steal over the past few days. Not that much planning had been needed.

"Right," Dean nodded, letting the statue drop onto his bed and stretching, sitting on his bed and unlacing his sandals.

The two brothers sat in silence.

"That was kind of graceless," Sam commented.

"Not our smoothest," Dean agreed.

They fell into silence again.

Three days of planning and Dean had managed to summarise the plan in three words. Steal, Run, Escape.

There was an odd sort of beauty to being so utterly tactless.

The king of the gods didn't have anything to worry about, not really. He was literally the king of the world, everything bent to his whim, everything was under his control. He could order a war to spring up in Thrace, or a sickness to drive out the Athenians from their home. He could damn man to a lifetime of hell and torment for scoffing at his name and he could order his children and siblings around, them being the centre of everything, the personification of everything on earth.

Everyone bent to him. Everyone except her.

She wasn't a singular body, but it was easier to label her thus. She flowed and merged as three women. No one was really sure what to think of her, what to name her, whether she was, in fact, a her at all. But the king of the gods had no room to question it. Because of his father. And his grandfather. And the lives that she held on the palms of her three hands.

John stood before the fates and tried not to flee. He was a large, godly entity with the power to reduce the world to rubble. His lightening awed and frightened the world and he had sentenced Prometheus to eternal torment for helping humanity a little along the road. There really wasn't anything that should frighten him. Honestly nothing at all.

So why then, when he looked into her (their, them, who knew?) face (faces?) did he feel so ill at ease?

He'd had sons before, daughters even. Layla was his, born the most beautiful maiden of the land. He'd heard she had chosen a husband and gone off to live with him in Sparta. But he didn't care much for her. Perhaps in a thousand years there'd be women with enough freedom that'd be worth backing, but today she was a piece in the game.

"Son of Kronos," Fate crooned, in three voices and then in one her blonde hair in disarray around her face. John shifted, she always made him so nervous. Everything about her was messy and incomplete and powerful. "You've come to speak of your son? Yes?"

The sky god set his jaw and nodded. He recalled the beauty goddess, Bela, claiming she was the most powerful of the gods because not even he could resist her charms. But now he looked upon the fate of the world and it was held in the palm of insanity.

Fate laughed and the sound was like a trickle of water, but it scratched as well, tore at him. There were three laughs overlapping. "Very well. I speak through the Oracle on earth, but today I speak to you. What is it that you want to know? Are my Oracles below your standards?"

She was goading him, John knew it, so he ignored her. "I want to know the extent of the prophecy."

"The prophecy?" Fate repeated, like she (they, their? Who?) had misheard.

John glowered. He was the king of the gods. He held the power here. Kronos was dead, buried in Tartarus, Ouranus mellowed and junk-less. No one was there to threaten him. No one except his sons.

"Ah, patricide," the voices of Fate giggled. It was girlish and terrifying and she looked at him, six eyes and then two, glimmering with mirth. "Your biggest weakness?"

John tried not to remember the time he'd eaten someone because he'd thought they might give birth to a son. Of course, the War Goddess Ellen had made him pay for it, what with the headaches before her birth and the ones after. She was fiery and insubordinate and John feared her a little, feared her city and her tactical mind. "No. Dean. Now."

Fate sighed, her three voices losing and catching each other. "Oh, oh John. Don't hurt us. Don't hurt yourself."

"Will he be remembered?" John demanded, frustrated now. "Will they sing songs about him?"

Fate smiled. "He will be remembered, yes."

John relaxed slightly. It was what he could hope for, right? He'd had hundreds of children and more often than not they'd died some cruel and forgotten death in the back of the charge. "Will he survive."

Fate tittered. She split and became whole again, those six eyes flashing, three mouths and three sets of grinning yellowed teeth. "Oh, dear boy." She spoke to him like he was a child, he suddenly realised. She was older than him, thousands of years older, but even Bela, born of Chaos as they were didn't dare threaten him in the way they were. Threaten him in their disrespect. "He is a demigod. He is a hero. There are no happy endings. There is nothing for him."

"He will die," John said, feeling oddly hollow.

Fate scowled, her three bodies separating again in a show of anger. "He is mortal. He will die whether he fight in the war that is coming or not."

"This prophecy," John pressed. "What does it say, exactly?"

Fate looked angry. "You ask too much, son of Kronos."

John was beginning to feel anger sparking at him like volts of electricity. He fumed and glared at her. Them. Ugh.

"You will tell me," John said, slowly and with conviction. "Or I will kill you."

Fate scoffed. "You can try."

John moved forward. "You will tell me. Because if you do not, I will kill him, here and now. What happens then? What happens to your precious game plan if I mess it up now?"

The fates only smiled. "It is with attempting to avoid fate that most meet it."

Her face morphed in a show of pain and then she grinned, bared her teeth like she was coming through some sort of immense pain. She split completely now and was three identical women.

"Tell him," one hissed.

"We cannot," another said, her tongue barbed like a snake.

"It is forbidden," the third agreed.

"Tell him," the first hissed, with more anger than before.

"We cannot," the second reiterated. "We cannot."

"It is forbidden," the third repeated.

The first snarled and turned to the king of the gods. "Death. Death and honour, oh yes glory and honour, but at such great a cost. Blood on his hands and blood on the hands of his brother. Everyone around him will die."

"Dean's brother, his mother?" John demanded, thinking of Mary and trying not to remember the way she had smiled at him, the way she had listened to him and kissed him. "They will die?"

"The mother, the brother," the fate whispered. "Everyone he cares about."

"Enough, sister," one snapped, glaring at the first of the Fates with barbs for eyes.

John thought and tried not to lose his head. Dean would be remembered, he would bring honour to himself. Mary and Sam would be granted to the Elysian Fields when they arrived at the Underworld. The god of the Dead and his master would be forced to ensure that.

John looked at each one of them and did not blink as they merged again, the one woman a little unsteady on her feet as the three sisters twisted together.

John nodded at each of them, not in thanks, he'd never thank them for promising him the death of his son and his sons loved ones, but nodded all the same. Then he disappeared, no sign that he'd ever been there at all.

The body of the Fates twisted her mouth into a smile.

"Darling, dear," they crooned in three separate voices. "We know you, we see you, come to us, goddess."

The woman in question stood and walked over to them. Anna did not fear the fates. They were brass and crude but they were intelligent and despite the long golden threads they commanded, they were not dangerous. They would not hurt her unless their plan foretold it, and if it did, well, Anna had made peace with that many years ago.

The goddess of the Hearth, Home and family planted herself in the same spot the King had stood, feeling her shoes fill up the room that he'd left. "Fates," she greeted.

"Anna," they said, splitting and reforming. It was disconcerting. "Why did you not wish for him to see you."

"I wanted to hear the fate of Dean Winchester for myself," she answered fearlessly.

"And now you will go warn him," they scoffed, three voices for the start of the sentence before melting into one. "You will try to save him."

"There is always a choice," Anna shrugged. "Perhaps he will not want to be remembered. Perhaps he will want to survive. Perhaps he will want his brother and his mother to survive."

The fates smiled. Smiled like they were holding all the cards. Anna wasn't phased, because, honestly, they were.

"You sacrifice much, goddess," the Fates crooned.

Anna straightened. "I've sacrificed a lot already."

"Gave up your place in the Olympian council so that buffoon with the thing for the grapes could take your spot," the Fates murmured.

"A necessary sacrifice," Anna reminded them.

"Necessary and foretold," the Fates shrugged, grinning again.

Anna watched them carefully. "Farewell."

"Wait," they were three people again, but spoke at once, in one voice. "Do you not want to know where he is?"

Anna paused and looked at them guardedly. "You'd tell me?"

Fate just laughed and Anna felt something cold running down her back. The way they laughed, it was like she (they, their...honestly) knew exactly what Anna planned.

Anna supposed that she did.

Jo Harvelle had been left to die when she was a baby. Not because of something reasonable, like a sickness that would take her within the first years of her life anyway, or because of some disfigurement that would be of embarrassment for the daughter of a king. No, because she had been born female.

And now here she was, standing before the castle that she'd been expelled from, kicked out of, roughly rejected.

The wind pushed around her, hot from the desert, then cool as it came from the opposite direction, whisking over the kingdom one over and collecting the air over the sweet cold of the Mediterranean.

She didn't shiver, she just stood, her face scrunched up, her fingers quivering around the sword on her belt and her shoulders were beginning to ache under the stress of her bow and quiver. It had been a show of strength, the bow, the arrows, the sword, her bare arms stressing her strength, her hunter's dress proving the lean ferocity of her body.

She wondered how long she had been standing there.

She gritted her teeth and raised her hand to the gate and pressed her palm against it.

With trepidation, the wood moved open.

The town opened up to her, men and women looking at her like she'd walked to them out of myth, like she was proof of their existence on earth.

Jo glared, set her features and walked, head held high, not meeting anyone's eyes. Her chin jutted out and proved her pride, her hand clenched around her sword proved her worth.

Cas cleared another table and tried not to gag as the smell of the man's vomit wavered through the air, hovering in the already grungy cloth he'd wet to clean up the mess and then mixing through the air.

"Are you alright?" He asked the man, who was bent over and moaning on the floor.

The man groaned and tossed on the floor, his blood shot eyes peering up and meeting Cas's. "Ughhghghhhg..."

"I know," Cas sighed, picking the man up from under the arms and placing him carefully back in his seat. "It's ok."

Cas had to thank his parents for the fact that he could hold liquor well, and then the men he cleaned up for never giving him the desire to drink at all. Besides, it seemed they all drunk to forget. To get away from the world.

What did he have to get away from? His sister who had opened up her home to him? Rachel's small children who climbed onto his lap and were so tiny and perfect? Perhaps the fact that he had a job, especially considering the crisis that seemed to grip the state?

Athens was suffering and people were beginning to wonder if they'd offended a god. Perhaps the god of wealth, or John himself. Perhaps neither. It was difficult, keeping up with it all and remembering all of them, remembering to honour all of them. They were so ruthless and, well, sensitive, and impossible to please. Cas caught himself before he could say anything about it, but it was really beginning to get to him. Especially with Rachel and her children, and then her husband who worked so hard for them to have a good life.

He was a good man, and he'd taken Cas in without a second thought. Taking in strangers had been a major part of Cas's life, it was fundamental for their entire culture. Ever since there had been the flood and the Man and Wife who'd escaped it because of their hospitality, everyone had been taking everyone in.

Nevertheless, Castiel certainly wasn't a god, and the family took him in anyway.

"Castiel!"

Cas craned his head and walked over to where his boss had yelled at him. Here was a downside to working at the tavern, other than the vomit and the occasional brawl that he was expected to control. He was rude and unruly and did nothing but drink his own wine and skimp of Cas's pay.

Cas didn't complain though, it was one thing to have an uncomfortable boss and an entire other to completely rely on your sister and her husband for home. At least this way he was making contributions, buying food, paying for clothing should the children run out of tunics, taking over the upkeep of the two slaves Rachel's husband had been able to afford.

"Yes?"

The tavern keeper nodded to where a woman sat by herself, in front of her was a drained cup that must have held mead or wine. "Ask her when she'd ready to fuck off."

Cas clenched his jaw at the vulgarity of his boss, but did as he asked. He weaved through the tavern, around bawdy drunks, happy drunks, clingy drunks and depressed drunks. He jumped over a dead-to-the-world drunk and seated a false bravado drunk.

He managed to get all around them to the woman. In honesty, he was curious. She was alone, without a male escort, drinking.

"I'm sorry, but your table is needed for new customers," Cas smiled at her apologetically.

The woman blinked, startling herself out a deep thought and smiled.

She had big, brown doe eyes and bright, flame red hair and Cas was a little enthralled by her. She was beautiful, that was sure, with her milky skin and fine features. "Of course. I'll leave immediately."

But Cas didn't want her to leave, not right away. "What were you doing here anyway? Not exactly the fanciest place in town." Or the safest, Cas felt like adding, but the way she held herself, the way she looked around the room, Cas had no doubt that she'd be able to take care of herself.

She smiled at Castiel and he felt himself smiling back. "Just watching the pieces."

Cas frowned and blinked in surprised. As soon as he opened his eyes she was gone, and the cup that he'd judged to be empty was full. The tavern keeper was leading two men to the table, with promises of free olives and pastries, like there had never been anyone sitting there at all.

Cas shook his head. It was all very disconcerting. Perhaps he'd become drunk by association. Or perhaps the fire on her sleeves, the way her hair flickered, the way her eyes caught his...No. Gods and the Goddesses, they look down from their perch and they scrutinise, but they don't visit.

And if they do, it's only to people who deserve it, people who are one day going to become something.

Cas heard retching and straightened, stretched and pulled out the cloth from his back pocket.

And he couldn't be destined for greatness. Look at him.

So he didn't entertain the thought, not even for a little bit, not even once.

End of chapter ooonnneeee

So!

John: Zeus

Sam/Dean: Like all the heroes ever omg

Jo: Atalanta

Layla (that GORGEOUS girl from Heart during s1 who had the brain tumor and was just lovely. Like she was so nice and now she's probably dead and well story of my life right): Helen

Anna: Hestia

Review! They feed Calliope and she can get pretty hungry, you're hearin' it from me folks.