trans_9 | Peace of mind? Yeah, right. [Open, and probably R for language.]

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Peace of mind? Yeah, right. [Open, and probably R for language.]

In the past few days, Dean has: been manhandled by a bunch of animated vines, been called an incestuous homosexual, nearly gotten into a fight with Blondie, nearly gotten into a fight with a giant blue horse, watched his brother try to fix his brain, gotten beaten up by a girl, and had to listen to the same Blondie and a giant wolf argue. It has not been a good week.

So Dean is wandering the ship, drinking straight from a bottle of booze, trying to unwind. By the time he reaches the sensoriums, he's feeling a bit better, so he sits down in the middle of one of them, ignoring the open door, and lets Stacy take over.

What unfolds around him is, in fact, Bobby's house. The car junkyard is off to the side of where he's sitting, and Bobby's messy house is behind him, and he's sitting on the lawn, feeling the sun shine down on him. It's nice.

So to anyone wandering by? You'll see Dean, on the grass of the lawn, soaking up the sun and occasionally sipping from his bottle.

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"It's perhaps a habit," he admits, giving up on figuring out what any of the foreign objects are. "Most people either ignore or pay me for those thoughts," he adds, glancing sidelong back.

This time Dean laughs, and pats at his plantsuit. "I'd pay you, dude, but I'm fresh outta cash. But I can promise I won't ignore you. Nothing worse than havin' a crapload to say and nobody listenin'."

"That's what the pen is for, sir knight, forcing people to listen. But thank you. And for earlier as well. I get lost easily, here." It's a fairly obvious thing, but not one easily admitted for Chaucer. He's too used to being highly-educated and overly intelligent. "Things are very different."

"Apparently a man wandering naked is not a common sight in everyone's lives, for instance."

"Heh. You're welcome, I guess." Dean pauses again to take a swig, and then shrugs. "It's really not a problem. I do it all the time. Save people, I mean. Or I try to."

And then he stops, and makes a face. Not going down that road, even with booze. But he does grin at the mention of the wandering naked man.

"So you are that dude. Sammy didn't know you have a kilt." Dean looks amused. "And why are you calling me a knight? I'm the furthest thing from a knight like, ever."

"The kilt is fairly recent," he admits easily. Geoffrey is not a man ashamed to wear nothing. Or a manly skirt. In fact, he is a man prone to wandering off absently without a stitch on with nary a care.

"You're not? The easy way that you stepped in, your knowledge, it's been a challenge to decipher everyone's rank here. I've been assuming nobility for most, to play it safe as it were, unless I'm corrected."

"That explains it." Dean says, grinning. He can respect a man who's brave enough to go without clothes. Dean so would, except it's sort illegal in his universe, and would get in the way during hunting.

"Huh." Is all Dean has to say to that. It's a thoughtful 'huh'. And then he thinks maybe he should say more. "Y'know, I'm not nobility, dude. Just a normal guy on a mission from God."

Oops, did that slip out?

A normal guy (person?) on a mission from God. Geoff tilts his head, mulling this over for a bit. It doesn't sound too unusual, though people rarely go around spouting such things. The Crusades were only a few hundred years ago, after all.

"Then you are a Knight of the Church?" It fits, after all. Except the bit where the man claimed to not be a knight, but perhaps he meant simply that he wasn't a secular one.

"What?" Dean blinks. "Nah, I... it's a long story. I mean, I guess you could call me that, but it's not exactly voluntary. I didn't sign up for it, they forced me into it."

Shrugging, he sips his booze, continuing. "Like I said, long story, which I'm sure you don't wanna hear."

Geoff grins widely at that. "I'm a writer. Stories are my bread and butter."

He would really love to find out what had happened.

Dean snorts. "So I'm guessing that means you wouldn't mind."

He stares at his bottle of booze, and figures hey, he needs practice for when he tells Sam, and hey, he's drunk enough. Why not? So he takes a deep breath, and launches into the story of how he'd sold his soul to a demon.

It doesn't take as long as he thought it would. He tells about how Sam had died, Dean had brought him back through the crossroad deal, had gone to Hell (yes, the real Hell, thank you), and been pulled out by an angel. And he ends it with how he's supposed to save the world. Or whatever.

"So, crazy enough for you?"

He shakes his head, scratching at it. The whole story, what Geoff can understand of it, sounds a bit mad. But if there are worlds where werewolves speak civilly to humans, and where deer are blue and deadly, there must be so many more, with even more outrageous things.

In the end, Dean's story is a lot less unusual than some he's been piecing together around here.

"I do not doubt your sincerity, but that is one story that I could never sell. Even as a dream."

Dean laughs, for more reasons than one. One, the obvious one, was Geoff's reaction and answer. But the other reason? He felt a bit lighter, having told someone the whole story. Not like he was completely cured; he knew nightmares of Hell were never going to leave, but at least he didn't feel quite as burdened.

Now he just had to tell Sam.

"I figured. I think it'd have a hard time selling even where I'm from." Dean pauses, and then glances at Chaucer. "So what's your story, man? I think you owe me one."

"My story?" He tries to feign innocence. "I'm a mere herald, a writer. What story would I possibly have to compare? Not even the story of my lord, Sir William, really compares, and his is far more interesting than mine.

"Not really looking to compare, dude. I'm not much of a story teller," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "So who's this Sir William guy, then?"

And before Dean forgets: "And what's your name? I never caught it, I don't think."

"I am Geoffrey Chaucer, writer and lately herald to Sir William Thatcher of Cheapside, the oddest, most courageous knight I have ever met." And so he starts into Will's story, starting with the pieces of early history that he'd been able to gather, through his own first introduction to the man and his squires (while naked, of course), and on through to the end (passing out after a celebratory farting/drinking game with Roland, Wat, and Kate post-tournament because Will had swanned off to be with his lady-love).

Surprisingly, there's only minimal embroidering of the tale. In fact, there's more talk of Wat's antics than there are over exaggerations. Geoff's in his element, however, choosing his words and gestures carefully for maximum effect, delicately brushing past most of his own part in the story.

Dean listens closely, half-amused by the story. This Wat guy sounds like he'd be a lot of fun, and Sir William sounds like a decent guy, and Adhemar? Sounds like a douche. But it's all incredibly interesting, and Dean finds himself listening because he wants to, not because he's supposed to.

When Chaucer's finished, Dean gives him a huge grin.

"Dude, you are one helluva story teller." Dean says, sipping his bottle. He pauses, and then offers Chaucer said bottle, continuing with: "And these friends of yours sound like my kinda people."

"They are," Chaucer says, sipping experimentally, "a rather remarkable set at that."

He grins. "Traveling with them was never boring."

"No joke," Dean replies. "Especially that Wat guy. I think I'd have a good time messing around with him."

Oh, imagine that, a tag team of Chaucer and Dean versus Wat. Now that'd be amusing.

"Funny, I've never met anyone who did not want to meet Wat."

"But I've never met someone quite as equal to him as you." Geoff offers the bottle back. That is to be taken in as many possible ways as it can be.

Chaucer always plays for his own team.

Dean takes the bottle back, and sips from it, thinking that one over. And once it occurs to him, he rolls his eyes before shoving Chaucer's shoulder lightly.

"Hey, a guy could take offense to that." Dean says good-naturedly, grinning.

Chaucer grins immediately, dorkily, and 'innocently.' "Could a... guy?"

That word still confuses him. It sounds like a name.

Dean laughs, this time. "Yeah, a guy could. Don't play innocent, dude, I'm not as smart as you, but I know a joke when I see one."

He doesn't sound angry, just amused. Chaucer is probably a good influence on Dean, which, on this ship, is pretty hard to find.

"So I'm guessing you're not too up to date on the lingo, then?" Dean asks, having noticed the hesitation on the word 'guy.'

Amused is what Geoff was aiming for, not that he minds anger (see: his relationship with Wat), and so his grin widens.

But then he shrugs, squinting around again. "Some things I get, others are beyond me," Chaucer admits. "Not, I admit, quite an advantage for a man of words like myself."

Well, not to mention the fact that the alcohol is making him all buzzed and happy. That helps. But Dean probably doesn't have it in him to actually get mad at Chaucer. The dude practically emits "people-pick-on-me" waves.

"Yeah, well, that's understandable. Judging on what I've heard, I'm a couple of centuries ahead of you. What kind of things do you not get?"

"I think a list, at this point, would be too long," he says, considering. "I understand we are in the sky, in a giant plant which can travel through time and into stories. I understand that we are mostly from... different versions of the world. But I do not understand aliens."

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