Disclaimer All recognizable characters/settings belong to their creators. The stories listed here are transformative works, from which I've made/am making no financial profit.

Warnings Language; references/allusions to torture and non-con.

9. Whispers from the Soul

Hudak grips not-Dean by the ankles and hauls him – no, not him, it – in through the doorway over to the cast iron radiator. Her cuffs are on her belt and she unhooks them, secures him, it, thinking furiously, not a spirit because the salt would have unphased it, revenant, zombie maybe, stops on the last one only because she thinks that would have amused him, the real him. She remembers him, the real him yakking on about how real live zombies don't lurch all over the damn place like a Romero movie, they sprint like Carl fuckin' Lewis, and she'd snorted out that surely being dead was a pretty serious ailment and if she couldn't jog when she had the flu then zombies shouldn't be able to sprint, you know, given the whole being dead thing and the fact it's a handicap and not a superpower.

You think too much, Kathleen.

Desk, drawer, index cards secured with a rubber band, and she flips through them. "Zombies can be killed by a bullet or a sharp blow to the head…" she mutters. "Kill the brain and you kill the ghoul. Jesus, that's straight out of Dawn of the Dead. And cremation is necessary to prevent them rising again." Revenant, then. "Decapitation, removal of the heart and burning." She glances over at him, it, sprawled out in the corner, hisses, "You're going to ruin my carpet, you miserable bastard."

Think, think, which is it…

"Well," she muses. "I guess I can combine a sharp blow to the head with decapitation if I use the ax."

It's parked outside the back door, and she runs a thumb along the blade, smirks, but – best laid plans and all that crap, she thinks, when she walks back in to find him – it – staring blearily up at her, and how dare it wear his face and stare up just like he would.

"I can't believe you fuckin' shot me again, Kathleen," he it groans, rubbing at his its chest. "Christ. What the hell was that about?"

"Shut it, buster," she barks. "I know damn well you'll have his memories if you're a revenant."

He it goggles owlishly at her, puzzled. "Revenant…" His its eyes flit distractedly over to the corner of the room, to the source of the music. "Christ, is that the fuckin' Carpenters?" And then he it stares back up at her. "Why would I be a revenant, I—"

"Zombie then," Hudak snaps. "Which means that if I kill the brain I'll kill the ghoul, and don't think this is me monologuing, you evil sonofabitch, because—"

"Kathleen." His its eyes are wider now, alarmed. "What the fuck is this? Why would you think I was a revenant or a zombie unless Bobby…" He it stops dead, closes his its eyes for a second. "Never told you. Bobby never told you."

"He told me it went down," Hudak says, and she hefts her ax, walks around to his its left, out of reach of his its legs, and wishes she'd thought to tie him it up. She squints down, judges the distance and raises her arm, and he – it-it-it-it, she screams inside her head, lifts his its hand up in self-defense, starts babbling out a string of words.

"No, wait! Kathleen, just a minute… silver! Silver! You must have a silver knife, just cut me somewhere – just a small one, mind – if I'm a revenant it'll kill me, you know that… or call Bobby, Kathleen, God, no, don't, Cas! Cas!"

Hudak swings it down, puts her back into it, aims it at his its skull, and there's a flash of something, cool air blowing on her face, a hand shooting out, abruptly stopping the descent. Something swings her around then, and she's staring at a dark-haired man about Dean's age, blue, blue eyes, and he's reaching a hand out towards her face.

"I believe you may be on a tilt, Dean."

"I'm not tilting, Cas. Now shut the fuck up and play."

"If you're upset it may be best to simply quit this session."

"I said, I'm not fuckin' tilting. And I'm not upset either."

"Perhaps you need to suppress your emotions and concentrate more on the game."

"Well, maybe if you'd shut up I could do just that."

Hudak cracks her eyes, peers through a millimeter-wide gap over at zombie-Dean and the dark-haired man, sitting opposite each other, staring down at the table, occasionally looking up and staring hard at each other.

"I believe deception in poker is a frequent occurrence, Dean," the dark-haired man says. "I'm told that solid players may often try to convince an opponent they're on a tilt when they aren't. In fact, it was you who told me this."

Hudak is on the couch, a cushion under her head and a throw pulled over her, which she reckons is odd in and of itself since, by rights, zombie-Dean should have ripped into her neck by now and she should be shuffling, or maybe even racing through town like Carl Lewis. Something's wrong, she realizes. Or maybe something's right.

"Your hand is shaking, Dean. I believe it may be a tell."

"I'm not telling, Cas. Give it a rest."

"I'm told some players' hands shake when they're placing a bet if they have a very strong hand, while other players' hands shake when they're bluffing, Dean. In fact, it was you who told me this."

"My hands aren't shaking, Cas, and here are ten fuckin' Froot Loops to prove it."

"Some players act strong when they're weak and act weak when they're strong, Dean. These players will often bet aggressively by throwing a large number of Froot Loops into the pot in the hope that their show of strength will make their opponent fold."

"Fuck! Dammit! Enough!" Not-Dean, maybe-Dean, possibly-Dean, probably-Dean, flings down his cards, leaps up, winces and doubles over, clutching at his chest. "Jesus. I can't believe she shot me again. Heads will roll for this snafu. Heads will fuckin' roll."

The dark-haired man looks up, and his voice is mild. "Learning to control your emotions while playing Texas hold 'em takes much practice, Dean, but it's very important because poker is a game of information, and you should give away no more than you have to. If you're able to master this skill, your luck at the tables will most certainly improve."

Definitely-Dean is gaping at the dark-haired man now. "The fuck? I taught you to play this game and you're turning that against me? Sly sonofabitch, I bet you—"

"You really are him aren't you?" Hudak interrupts.

Dean's head snaps around. "Yes, I really am him. And no, I have no idea why Bobby didn't tell you I was – okay. Okay. Which I am. Though, no thanks to you."

Hudak pushes herself up, rubbing at her temples. "What the hell did your friend do to me?" she says. "My head feels like bees live in it."

"I gave you the magic finger," the dark-haired man says.

Hudak regards him for a second. "You gave me the what?"

"The magic finger," the dark-haired man repeats calmly. "Dean informs me it's similar to the famous Spock nerve pinch, which has been successfully used on humans, Vulcans, and Romulans. Once, even a horse."

Dean is nodding sagely, smiling. "In Star Trek five," he adds. "The Final Frontier. The horse, I mean. And I think it was a horse-like creature, not a horse horse." He frowns then. "You'll need to buy some prunes. It binds you up. For a few days, maybe a week."

Hudak looks from him back to the dark-haired man, who stares at her, impassive.

"In reality, the famous Spock nerve pinch wouldn't have the effect that is portrayed on screen," he imparts suddenly. "Simply pinching an individual's neck in such a manner won't result in unconsciousness. Unfortunately I can shed no light on why the finger causes Dean to become constipated, but perhaps you won't experience this side effect."

Dean snorts. "And while we're on the subject, Cas, next time you give me the finger don't undress me. Capische? The clothes stay on. Even in bed. Especially in bed." He winks at Hudak. "You should see what he can do when he uses the whole hand."

Hudak stares dumbly for a minute, blinks hard. "I'm terribly confused," she murmurs. "It's time for me to stop drinking. This is clearly a sign that I've gone too far. You, both of you… aren't even here."

Smiling widely, Dean crosses to sit next to her, slaps his hand down on her thigh and squeezes it hard. "Oh, I'm here," he says, and then jerks his head over at the other guy. "But him? With him, it's one of those he was never here deals."

The dark-haired man stands, walks to the door, turns, still deadpan, voice still placid. "I'll take my leave, Dean. There are seals to defend after all." And then he's gone, just like that, so fast she doesn't quite understand what happened.

"Hey," Dean is calling at thin air. "Cas, seals, you said seals. Does that mean there's more than one left still? Damn." He seems to remember Hudak is there, casts her a glance. "Seals," he says, almost uncomfortably. "Cas is, he's – in that whole Greenpeace thing. Against seal hunting. He's – Canadian."

"I guess someone has to be," Hudak says dryly. "Now please explain to me how it is you're here and why I have spent the last six months laboring under the assumption you were growing horns and a forked tail, and twirling a trident."

Dean blanches, and something flickers across his eyes, something like hurt, and then he smiles and matches Hudak's gaze without faltering. "I never went," he says smoothly. "Sam, he found a loophole. Right at the eleventh hour."

"But Bobby called me and told me—"

"We didn't tell Bobby, not straightaway," he says brightly. "Might have put him in danger."

"But I called him," Hudak says slowly. "I assume that's why you're here."

"Yeah. He tried calling you on your cell a few times. He left a message at your office too, a couple I think. They said you were sick…" Dean pauses, frowns. "It's not your epileptic head thing, is it?"

Well, it's plausible enough, Hudak thinks, even if his eyes do look strained, even if they're shadowed underneath, even if he's a tad pale. "I lost my phone," she says. "Right after I called him, actually. And no it's not the seizures, the meds are working fine."

Dean nods but his eyes are cagey now, flickering about, and Hudak's gut tells her this is an act but she doesn't call him on it. He leans down, picks up her shotgun, smiles. "Home-made suppressor. Pretty cool. How did you—"

"It's really good to see you, Dean," Hudak says.

Dean cocks his head, puts the gun back down on the floor, shifts closer, leans in just slightly and runs the tip of his tongue along his top lip. "Uh. How good? Is it to see me, I mean?"

"Take off your tee," Hudak murmurs, and he smirks. "I'll get the first aid kit," she continues as she stands. "Your chest must be pretty sore so we should—"

"It's fine, sorted," Dean cuts in. "We patched it up while you were out." His eyes gleam up at her. "And yes, it is sore. But sex would help. I think."

Hudak rolls her eyes. "Now I definitely know it's really you."

Unearthly, brutal howling at three in the morning, and it sounds like a mangled version of twilight barking, timber wolves howling at the killing moon. Hudak falls her way out of bed, flies down the stairs four steps at a time, barrels into the TV room. The couch is empty, blankets are twisted, sheets torn, and there's a sound, pitiful moaning rising to a grinding shriek and back down again, and Dean is in the corner on his butt, hugging his legs, not saying any words, just making unintelligible sounds of dread.

And it's familiar, Hudak thinks, Bender flashback, and she's over on her knees in front of him before her brain can remind her that he lashes out when he comes round. In a liquid, graceful lunge, he erupts out of the shadows, knocking the wind out of her and tumbling her flat on her back with him straddling her waist, and she sees the flash of silver and feels cold metal caress her face. The moon illuminates dead, flat features, because he isn't there, he left himself, and Hudak feels the sting of the blade on her throat, and begs for her life.

"Dean. Dean. Don't hurt me. Come back. Don't hurt me, please, please stop, don't—"

He presses his palm down hard across her mouth, leans close to her ear, and his voice is as devoid of emotion as his eyes. "Don't beg me. Don't ever beg me. Worse if you beg, worse for you. You have to be quiet while I do this or it'll be worse for you. Slower. Do you hear me? I can cut you up fast or slow. Do you hear me?"

She nods as vigorously as she can with her head pinned down by his hand, and he lifts it away, keeps whispering incoherently as he presses harder with the blade. She winces, makes a sound, and he puts a finger to her lips and soothes her. "Hush. Don't beg. Don't ever beg… just… open your mouth. No sounds…"

Hudak grabs at something floating around her brain, blurts it out. "I used a piece of three hundred pounds per square-inch pvc pipe… I got it at Lowe's plumbing department… rubber and plastic discs, soft wood washers, Dean, listen to me, it's important. You need something to absorb the heat, disperse it… I used a six-inch long aluminum tube, ow… Jesus, please stop, no!" Red hot pain flares under Hudak's chin and she grips his wrist, stares up, but his face is still set. "I'm not begging, Dean, honest," she babbles. "The internal diameter needs to be as close to the bullet size as possible and you drill holes in it, same size as the bullets, a quarter inch from the end and a quarter inch from each other…"

Dean is tilting his head, staring down at her, eyes narrowed. "It's a trick," he murmurs.

"No, Dean, not a trick," she soothes. "Remember? You asked me about it, about the suppressor. I cut the disks out of a plastic trash can and an old tire, I used a hole saw… for the wooden washers too, and I used particle board for those – and steel plugs, you need steel plugs, I got them at a local auto shop, and—"

"It's another trick," Dean says. "He never used you before." Abruptly he jerks backwards and off of Hudak, scuttles into the corner, and she takes a deep breath, yomps as quickly as she can to the fireplace, grabs the poker while Dean mutters to himself from the shadows.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…"

"Dean," Hudak dares.

His voice races faster, breathless, frantic, "Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis, humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt… Vade, Satana… inventor et magister omnis fallaciae… please. Please, God. Vade, Satana. Vade, Satana…"

Hudak sees his jacket balled on the floor, forces herself to ignore the sick feeling in her belly, crawls over to it, fishes out his cellphone and scrolls down. It takes a few seconds before the voice croaks down the line at her.

"Sam? It's Kathleen Hudak. Yes, I know what time it is. Dean is here with me – yeah, whatever, but I need you here stat. Okay… you got a pen? Oh, you do? Yeah, it's a half-hour drive."

She snaps the cell closed, shivers, because now Dean is watching her, and he's quiet for a few seconds before he sighs out, rests his brow on his knees.

"It's over," he whispers. "I'm – back."

Hudak isn't letting go of her poker just yet. "Where were you?" she pushes.

"You don't want to know," he replies, and he sounds defeated, resigned.

"Yes. I do," Hudak says more sharply, and damned well insistently. "I do want to know, Dean, because you nearly cut my throat just then and I—"

"Believe me," he says, and when he looks up his eyes are black pools in the dim light. "You really don't."

And suddenly it's so clear and Hudak's mouth is thick with claggy saliva, and she feels bile burn the back of her throat. "You were lying," she breathes. "Before… you were lying when you said Sam broke the deal." She pushes up slowly, carefully, no sudden movements, backs over to the doorway. "What are you?" she challenges. "What the fuck kind of monster are you, and why are you here?"

Dean is part-hidden behind the couch now and his voice is faint. "I'm me. I'm me. I'm not a—not, just not. I just. It seemed like you couldn't see it. Earlier today."

"See what?" Hudak stays poised to rabbit, eyeing the shotgun where he left it earlier, thinking there's holy water in the kitchen and she didn't try that on him. "Couldn't see what?"

"See Hell," Dean says wearily. "I'm so tired of people looking at me and seeing Hell, Kathleen. It didn't happen at first… not until I remembered. And then it was in my eyes all the time, and I could see it in the mirror, and everyone could see it. But it seemed like you couldn't see it… it seemed like you could see me. Once you figured out I wasn't a zombie anyway. So. I lied. I just wanted you to keep seeing me, I guess."

Hudak stands, doesn't move any closer, doesn't run either.

"I'm not a demon, Kathleen," Dean says, soft and honest. "I couldn't say the exorcism rite if I was."

Hudak considers that for a minute, snorts. "You never even used to know it. You had it written on an index card and laminated."

After a humorless chuckle, Dean says, "I learned it before I left. I figured I might need it."

"Did it work?"

Dean is silent for a long moment before he clears his throat. "No. Not down there."

Hudak bites her lip, rubs at her head, then flips the phone open. "Sam, Kathleen again. It's okay, he's okay. Bad dream. He's fine… yes, I think so."

Sam is terse in response, barks out a reply, I've been calling him for fucking hours, and Hudak makes a face at the phone. "Well don't kill the messenger, talk to him about it. No, I can handle it… Okay… About nine? Okay, see you then." She huffs annoyance as she snaps the cell closed again. "What the hell got into him? Anyway he's pretty pissed off, says he left some messages…"

"Boo hoo," Dean grouses back, but there's no venom there, he sounds drained.

Hudak sighs, long and heavy. "You know, I thought you were having a Bender flashback."

"Bender?" he mocks. "Bender was practice. Bender was foreplay. If there's one thing I got over down in the Pit, it's Lee Bender, believe me."

Tentative, because she isn't really sure she wants an answer, Hudak fishes. "What was it like?"

"It was what you'd imagine it might be, Kathleen. And more." Dean laughs suddenly, brutally. "It brought a whole new meaning to the phrase being on fire for the Lord."

Hudak flicks on the lamp, crosses over to where he's sitting, legs splayed out now, and she squats down. "You're bleeding."

He nods. "Yeah, that. I sort of – didn't really want you seeing that. On account of this."

He pulls the tee off over his head and Hudak gapes at smooth, unmarked, unscarred skin, new skin, unblemished apart from the speckled bloody spatters and pinprick bruises the rock salt crystals left behind. And something else.

"What the hell is that?" she blurts out, gesturing at Dean's shoulder.

"Oh. Handprint." Dean shrugs, colors. "Thing is… Castiel, he—"

"Canadian magic finger Greenpeace guy?"

"Yeah. Uh. He's not actually Canadian. He pulled me out. Of Hell."

Closes her eyes, Hudak shakes her head hard, feels a momentary stab of sadness at the fact that seeing him in one piece, himself, living, breathing, is firecracker and ticker tape parade stuff, but even though it's so right she wants to draw him close and weep with relief, it's so damn wrong that some part of her is terrified. "How? With a spell?" she ventures. "Dark magic? Blood sacrifice? And how come him, and not Sam or Bobby?"

"No… uh. With his hand. Literally. It kind of… burned into my skin. With – celestial power, I guess. Or something like that. He calls it grace. He's…" Dean trails off, frowns, seems a tad embarrassed if anything. "You see… he's an angel. Of the Lord."

"An angel," Hudak echoes.

"Of the Lord," Dean says again, nodding. "Because, what do you know, it turns out there is a God."

Hudak makes her voice sound conversational even if it wants to wobble and veer through octaves, because even screaming at the top of her lungs is going to be the fucking understatement of the year. "I'm an agnostic, Dean," she says, shuffling over to lean next to him. "Do you realize what this means for me?"

Dean stares at her, a gormless, clueless look that turns into mild alarm as she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs deeply.

"It means that I believe the existence of God remains to be proven. It's a great way for me to rationalize not praying, and not going to Mass on Sundays like my mom and dad did, while not actually committing to saying there is no God. I see not committing as a loophole that should hopefully save me from eternal damnation. And now you're telling me this guy – who, by the way, I thought you might possibly be… you know – is an angel of the Lord. Which means I have no excuse now."

They sit there shoulder to shoulder for a long, quiet moment.

"Eternal damnation is no laughing matter," Dean observes then.

"I know – don't forget, I was married," Hudak retorts. She twists, reaches up, pulls a blanket off the couch and waves the fabric at him. "You're shivering."

Dean shrugs. "It's. I'm not cold. It just takes a while to calm down."

Hudak drapes it over her own legs. "You know, if I was an atheist I'd be royally shafted," she says then. "As it is, I'm lucky I didn't commit, but now I'm in deep shit for assuming you were screwing an angel. Of the Lord." She glances across at him. "So he – what, restored you? To a new version of your old body?"

Dean nods. "Yep, pristine. Picked up the odd mark in the last couple of months, but apart from the handprint and the tattoo, my hide's like a baby's ass. I'm not even circumcised any more."

Hudak feels her eyebrows shoot up reflexively. "Really?"

"Yeah, you wanna see?"

"God." Hudak looks up at the ceiling as she says it, raises a conciliatory hand. "Sorry, God."

"Did you really think me and him were… that?" Dean detours suddenly, and he sounds vaguely scandalized with a dash of thrilled fascination bubbling underneath.

"Two good-looking guys, the magic finger, the whole hand, the way he stared at you. It was like he wanted to rip your clothes off and…" Hudak fakes seriousness as she nods. "You need to watch who you tell about him giving you the finger, Dean, because it will never come out right. Never. What is the magic finger anyway?"

"It really is like the Spock nerve pinch," Dean says. "He just taps you with it and it can put you out, send you back in time. It's pretty awesome. Except for the constipation. The whole hand is for exorcisms."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Hudak marvels, and she knows that it will hit her hard in the cold light of day. "But remember that movie about fallen angels exiled to Wisconsin? Well. Does he have… you know. A centurion outfit on under the clothes? And wings?"

"I'm not going anywhere near the centurion outfit," Dean deadpans. "But he has wings, yeah. They're invisible."

"Of course they are," Hudal murmurs. "I should have known." She sinks her head into her hands. "This can't be," she says. "He looks like a—"

"Tax accountant. I know. The body's a vessel. Some – guy. Apparently he's devout and prayed for it, so that makes it okay." He clears his throat, sounds nervous maybe. "He's been a really good friend to me. He was there with me. He's the only one who really knows."

Something occurs to Hudak as he speaks, and she looks up and across at him sharply. "Why would an angel raise you from Hell? I mean – it's not as if you don't deserve it or anything, but why you?"

Dean waits a beat before he speaks, but he's hesitant. He's lying, maybe, Hudak thinks.

"The demon who held the deal… Lilith, her name was. She's pretty influential, as demons go. They pulled me out to kill her. Seems there's like some sort of cosmic symmetry that means only I can do it. It's complicated. And Sam's got it in his head this killer of yours is her."

Hudak stares at him for a minute. "Because all the victims look like you," she breathes. "So she's trying to get you first, hoping she'll get the right one along the way."

He nods.

"I guess it's possible," she muses doubtfully. "Seems like a longshot, though. Do you think it's her?"

Scratching at his head, Dean sighs. "I don't know. I'm just along for the ride these days."

"I think this calls for a drink," Hudak says suddenly, twsiting around to slide a hand under one of the couch cushions. Dean raises a quizzical eyebrow as she retrieves a half-empty quart bottle.

"It's convenient," she blusters as she flops back down beside him. "Sometimes I like a sip when I'm watching TV."

"Bobby took to drink after I died," Dean says offhandedly.

Hudak spits out her mouthful of the liquor, partly because of what she thinks he might be implying and partly because of what he actually said. "I haven't taken to drink, Dean," she replies, knows her tone is defensive, maybe a dead giveaway in fact. "You died," she continues, less sharply. "Jesus. I never really thought about that bit."

"I don't think about it myself if I can help it," he says. "And I don't think you have to worry about taking the Lord's name in vain, Kathleen. He hasn't – smitten? Smited? Smote? Smat? Me yet."

Hudak passes him the bottle and he gulps down a mouthful. "I think smited might be grammatically correct, but I like smat better," she says, and she glances sideways at him. "So. Bobby and Sam must have been pretty happy to see you."

Dean cackles. "They both tried to gank me too." He nods, bites his lip. "Sam," he says. "He saw it go down. It was…" He closes his eyes, shivers. "It was pretty bad. Like I said. I don't think about it if I can help it. But Sam took it real bad, got set on this revenge kick, like – Deathwish or something. And he's… was. Is, I guess, still pretty traumatized."

"But he's got you back now…" Hudak nudges his knee with hers.

"Yeah. But, uh… it hasn't been that easy," he mutters. "Not as easy as you'd think. I mean – at first it was fine. But it's like he, I don't know. Resents me, or something. Like I'm in the way of this fuckin' revenge quest of his."

"You don't want revenge?" Hudak knows she sounds surprised, doesn't bother to hide it.

Dean's voice is infinitely weary when he replies. "I just want to move on. It's over, no point in dwelling on it. I got out. Can't we just – get on with our lives? I just. Wish I could. Wish he'd let go of it."

"Do you have the dreams every night?"

"Pretty much." Dean shrugs. "Once, twice maybe. Sometimes if I can drink enough they aren't so bad. The booze muffles them so I sleep through the worst of it. I can get noisy, but I stay asleep."

"So you're drinking heavily again."

Pulling a face, Dean grouses, "Don't you start. I need it to sleep."

"What does Sam do when you have the nightmares?" Hudak prods.

"He rolls over, generally." He sees her look, continues swiftly. "It's best to just leave me to it. I just come out the other side and no one gets hurt." He nudges her knee this time. "It's important, Kathleen," he says, and his voice is colder. "If it happens again, you need to keep your distance. That was… that was too close. If I hurt you… well. I just don't want to do that."

Hudak doesn't let it lie. "What do you dream about?"

Dean studies her for a minute, smiles, but it's guarded, doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm never going to tell you that," he says quietly, seriously, and he shakes his head. "Never."

"Will you dream again tonight?"

Dean looks across and out the window, waves a hand in that direction. "Dawn's coming," he says. "I think it'll be okay. Maybe I'll just doze here for a while. If you hear anything, just stay upstairs. I'm used to it." He smiles again. "You look tired," he says, and he reaches out a hand, brushes hair back off her face. "Go back to sleep."

Hudak screws the cap back on the bottle, pushes up, looks down at him for a second and then across at the couch. "Come on," she says, and reaches down. "The bed's more comfortable."