A/N: Thank you thank thank you, my special darlinks, for your lovely reviews. You are much appreciated, and you will all get your rewards in the mail. I bring you the next update at the darkest midnight hour, much after I should be asleep, so if it is weird I'm not responsible. But I wanted to get you guys an update! I love you all very much and I love Destiel very much, and the combination keeps me up until 4 in the morning typing away fervently. (Caffeine and an evening nap may or may not also be involved.) So please enjoy this next chapter, those of you who are reading. I know the premise of this story is bizarre, so believe me when I say - thank you. Thank you for giving this crack addict of an author a chance.

Okay, I'll shut up now. Just know that if you review, I will personally kidnap Misha Collins* and clip off a lock of his hair for you!**

*No I won't.

**Why do you want a lock of his hair, bucko? You some kinda hair pervert? Yeahhhh, I'm onto you. *squinty eyes*

ANYWAY, here's the chapter!


That night, Dean had a very strange dream.

He stood in a grassy meadow with a herd of grazing cows, all different sizes and colors. A small man sat in the center of the field, and when he saw Dean, he stood up and waved. "Hey!" he called, "You must be Lucky Dean!"

Dean smiled uneasily and waved back. He could feel the cows watching him, blinking lazily with long, curly lashes. "That's what they call me." The nickname was only half-ironic; no matter how difficult the scrape, he always managed to cheat death. That was lucky enough for him.

The man walked up to Dean and shook him by the hand, grinning. He was built short and wiry, curly brown hair, gray eyes and a scraggly beard. "The pirate brothers, Lucky Dean and Doc Samuel. I'm a big fan of yours. Really."

Dean opened his mouth, then hesitated. "And who are you, again?"

He smacked his forehead and chuckled nervously. "I forgot to introduce myself! I'm, well, I'm Zeus, and…" He squinted up bashfully at Dean. "I'm kind of the reason they call you lucky."

"Zeus," Dean said.

Zeus smiled. "Yup."

Dean stared. "The Zeus?"

"Yes," he said.

"The chucking-lightning-bolts, father-of-the-world's-strongest-man Zeus?"

"Yes!" he snapped. "Why does everybody always –" He cut himself off with a huff and crossed his arms tightly. "Anyways, I've been looking out for you, for a long time. But now, you happen to have screwed the proverbial pooch."

"The proverbial -" Dean shook his head to clear it. "What the hell did I do?"

Zeus scratched his beard nervously. "You pissed off Poseidon, Dean."

"I pissed off Poseidon?" Dean demanded. "The sea god? Jesus, don't you guys have somewhere to be, like Greece?"

"W-w-we go where the trade is!" Zeus sputtered back. "Wherever it's most exciting! I can't help it if my constituency moves across the world!"

Dean rubbed his temple and sighed. A cow made a low noise behind him and butted up against his elbow. "Fine. Okay. Sure. Say I believe you. How did I piss him off?"

"You sacked his favorite ship," Zeus said, as though it were painfully obvious. "Ciclope, remember? The guys on that ship worship Poseidon. You put out the captain's right eye and set the whole thing on fire. He can't let that stand."

"His most favorite ship in the whole world," Dean muttered. "Of course I'm the one to raid it." Some luck.

"And I can tell him to leave you alone 'til I'm blue in the face, but…" Zeus looked him in the eye, an anxious wrinkle in his forehead and a grim set to his chin. "Truth be told, he's just as powerful as me. Maybe even moreso." He exhaled heavily, and patted the cow who had wandered up next to him. "Sooner or later, you're in for a world of hurt. He's vowed to kill every last one of your men before you ever set foot in England."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean asked. "If there's nothing you can do, why bother?"

Zeus squinted at the cloudy blue sky. "I can give you a week. Make port as soon as you can, travel as far inland as you can go and stay there. Forever."

Dean chuckled. "Are you serious?"

Zeus met his eyes. "Deadly."

And Dean woke up.

When he tried to explain the dream to Sam later that morning, Sam gave him a concerned look and told him he should really cut down his drinking. Dean tried to convey the clarity of the dream, the vibrant realness of the field, and his lingering sense that some storm was brewing on the horizon.

"Maybe it's just your conscience catching up with you," Sam said. "What you did to Gordon was pretty brutal."

"He had it coming," Dean muttered. "After what he put us through, he's lucky I only took an eye."

"I'm not saying he didn't deserve it," Sam agreed. "I'm just saying maybe your dream had more to do with that than some – Greek god making a visitation. And besides…" He looked out the cabin window at the cloudy gray sky. "Maybe a storm is coming. Maybe it's just the weather."

Dean still felt uneasy.

It was with that same uneasy heart that he stood on the dock and watched his men load up the ship with supplies in Belém. Everyone helped haul dry goods into the hold, from the burly bosun Jake Talley to little Joe, the blond cabin boy whose voice hadn't even cracked. Rufus, whose duties were strictly confined to the galley, got out of it by rubbing his wrists and complaining of his arthritis. Dean watched his men, his crew, his friends. Some of them he'd picked up over the last few years, seekers of fortune and cutpurses; some he'd inherited with the ship.

You're in for a world of hurt. He's vowed to kill every last one of your men.

Dean shivered and hefted a sack of flour over his shoulder. A gust of chill wind raced over the back his neck and billowed his collar. "Bad weather," he muttered.

"Excuse me, Captain."

Dean stopped, and turned.

A black-haired man stood there, with gray-blue eyes and a blank expression. A long leather coat that hung past his wrists in the sleeve, and thick overlarge boots that came halfway up his calves, he looked as though he were in borrowed clothes. He had a large full burlap sack in one hand and a satchel slung over his shoulder. He said, "I would like passage aboard your ship." In English, no less.

"No passengers," Dean grunted. "'Scuse me, this flour is heavy. Goodbye."

Without a shift in his expression, the man held out his burlap sack automatically. "I can pay my way."

Dean huffed a laugh and shifted the flour. "So you're gonna pay me in corn, then? Or is it yams?" He reached out to swipe the satchel -

His arm yanked suddenly downward, and Dean nearly toppled over. He dropped the sack.

It clinked.

He set down his flour.

He knelt down, unknotted the top of the sack, and peered in.

Gold. Perfectly minted coins of pure Spanish gold, gleaming bright and new as though they had just been polished, and he took one out and bit it and son of a bitch it was gold, real gold, just a burlap sack fulla gold.

Dean laughed in disbelief. "You don't even know where we're going!"

"It doesn't matter," the man said. "I like to travel."

Dean stood up and dusted off his knees, and suddenly the entire picture made perfect sense. To be dressed like that with money like this, and not caring where he went so long as it wasn't here – well, this guy was some kind of criminal. A thief, maybe, or a con. He was paying Dean not to ask questions, and he was hitching a ride with pirates in the hopes they would turn a blind eye.

"Well," Dean said, offering his hand to shake, "welcome aboard the Impala, Mr…?"

"I am Castiel," the man said, taking his hand and shaking it with strangely intense concentration, as though he had been practicing and wanted to get it right.

Dean tried to keep a straight face. What a ridiculous cover name. "Right," he said. "I'm Captain Dean Winchester."

And the faintest quirk of a smile hinted at the corners of Castiel's mouth, and he said, "I know."

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up.

Castiel walked past him and onto the gangplank, up into the ship, leaving his sack of gold without so much as a backward glance. Dean knotted the top and heaved it under his arm, watching the back of the strange man, shivering again and reminding himself to lock his cabin door tonight.

When they finally set sail, the wind was up but nothing too crazy; just enough to get some speed and put a few miles behind them. Dean informed the crew of Castiel's arrival, and put the gold in the Treasure Room (as the crew had dubbed a closet behind the armory) where it would be split evenly the next time they made port. He was a fair captain.

He also made everyone swear on their bibles not to murder Castiel and search his belongings for jewels. He was a just captain.

Castiel did not seem nearly as worried as Dean thought he should be.

After supper, Sam found Dean in his cabin, poring over maps and compasses. "So," Sam began with a smirk, "Is it still that dream that's got you all shook up?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up from his maps. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, come on." Sam rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the table. "You, trying to put the fear of God in that new guy. What was that about?"

"Hey, I'm just looking out for him," Dean protested. "As is my captainly duty!"

Sam snorted. "Duty my ass. You were practically threatening him. You told him the crew would murder him for his valuables!"

"No, I made them swear not to," Dean corrected. "And for all I know, they will anyways. We are pirates, Sam. There is no honor amongst thieves."

"Sure," Sam agreed brightly. "That's why you get murdered and mutinied against so often. Cuz our crew is so loosely principled."

Dean sighed and wiped a hand down his face. "Okay, okay, I get it. Here's the truth." He took a deep breath. "The guy said he knew me."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Or, maybe – what he actually said was –" Dean closed his eyes, remembering. "I said I was Captain Dean Winchester, and he said, 'I know.' In that freaky-ass deep voice of his. Like he's… planning something." He turned back to his maps and picked up his quill, ready to jot down more notes. "Anyway, I just thought I'd head it off by letting him know he's being watched."

Sam nodded slowly, watching Dean with that all-too-familiar concerned look of his.

"It's fine," Dean said, refusing to meet his eyes. "Stop hovering and go doctor or something."

Sam sighed and stood up, just as the wind began to howl against the windows. "You should go relieve Jake at the helm. The rain's really picking up."

Dean waved him away. "Jake'll be fine. Besides, it's just a squall. We'll be through it in a half hour."

….

Three Hours Later

"IS THAT AN ISLAND?" Dean screamed against the banshee wail of the storm, clenching the wheel with white knuckles, sporadic bucketfuls of seawater splashing in his face. "ARE WE ABOUT TO RUN AGROUND ON A FUCKING ISLAND?"

"Starboard!" Jake shouted. "We need to bear starboard, NOW!"

"I AM TURNING STARBOARD!" Dean bellowed. "IF WE RUN AGROUND I WILL KILL YOU AND USE YOUR DEAD BODY AS A FUCKING RAFT, TALLEY!"

"Noted, Captain!"

"DON'T CAPTAIN ME, HELP ME TURN THIS GODDAMN SHIP!"

…..

Five Hours Later

The crew laid on the deck in a soggy heap, while the dawn slanted peacefully over the waterlogged deck.

Dean spat something slimy and green into his hand. "Seaweed," he croaked. "I think I ate seaweed."

Sam moaned and pushed himself up, supporting himself on the mast. "It's over," he groaned. "We survived."

The crew slowly gathered themselves up and checked each other. No one seemed to be missing, but there were a few broken bones and lumps on the head. Those who were able helped the injured to their hammocks and began to wearily unlash the sails. Castiel had been ordered to stay out of the way in Sam's cabin until they rode the storm out, and he had obediently stayed there; now he poked his head out and watched the bruised pirates gingerly get back to work.

Dean stood at the helm, trying his best to look unfazed and failing miserably. The blue sea sparkled brilliantly in the morning light, peaceful and pretty like the whole thing had never happened. Joe walked up, mop in hand, his blond hair turned dark water and plastered to his scalp.

"You think that was the worst of it, Captain?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Look at the sky. Clear as a piece of goddamn glass. Yeah, it's over."

"Then I only have one question." Joe looked at the water all around them, blue all the way to the horizon in every direction. "Where are we?"

Dean blinked.

He looked around, consulted the position of the sun, and checked his compass.

Finally he answered, and all he said was:

"A world of hurt."