Summary: Buffy and Dean fell in love. Buffy and Dean got married. Buffy and Dean don’t know about each other’s secret lives as Slayer and Hunter. But nothing stays secret forever. *Response to Challenge 3541 by Chosenfire. Mr. and Mrs. Smith with a Buffy/Dean twist.
Rating: FR18 (eventually)
Disclaimer: BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon and ME. Supernatural is Eric Kripke’s.
A/N: I followed the therapy scene from the movie very closely, as I thought it would be fun to imagine how Buffy and Dean would answer the therapist’s questions. I will try to mix it up a little from this point forward, so the story’s not totally predictable (while staying within the realm of the challenge, of course). +++
Buffy sat in the chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was nervous. And just why did she think that couples therapy
was a good idea?
Deep down, though, she knew the answer.
She had always wanted normal. Well, she had gotten it, right down to the white picket fence. The problem was that no one told her that ‘normal’ would be so difficult.
But that was mostly her own fault – her husband didn’t know she was the Slayer, and surprise, surprise, it put a strain on their relationship. How could it not? Everything he knew about her was built on a lie, or at least half-lies.
She had to lie about her friends, her work, her ‘business trips’. She even had to hide the fact that she could open a jar of pickles way more easily than he ever could.
Yep, there was a huge elephant in the room – and in the bed – and its name was the Slayer.
Buffy couldn’t tell him the truth, though, not now. Aside from majorly freaking him out – because telling someone that you have the essence of a demon inside you, which incidentally allows you to fight supernatural bad guys, was definitely freak-worthy material – it would be hard explaining why she hadn’t told him until now.
That's where her bright idea for therapy came in. She thought that some counseling could help get rid of Dumbo without having to reveal her secret.
Still, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Her husband wasn’t exactly one to get in touch with his feelings, or go all emo, as he would say. It took all her powers of persuasion just to get him there in the first place; and he still hadn’t made any promises not to deck the therapist, who he not so affectionately referred to as a witch doctor.
If he only knew what a real
witch doctor was like. Buffy gave an involuntary shudder at the unpleasant memory; then she glanced over at him, hoping he didn’t notice.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Buffy looking at him, but he refused to look back. He didn’t bother trying to disguise his lack of enthusiasm, though. In fact, he wanted
her to see it.
He still didn’t know how she had managed to get him there – though he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the tears that had appeared in those gorgeous hazel eyes of hers as she had pleaded her case.
But dammit, they were doing alright, even if things had become a little vanilla. They definitely didn’t need any goddamn stranger telling them how to live their lives.
If it was anyone other than Buffy that had suggested this…
But she did. And so there he was. It didn’t hurt that he felt a little guilty.
Because, yeah, Buffy didn’t know that demons existed, let alone that he hunted them with his brother, and had been for most of his life. And sure, it was for her own good, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel bad about hiding it from her, especially since he had no intentions of telling her, ever
Seriously, Cassie had freaked when she had first found out. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, that was for damned sure.
Good thing a lifetime of lying and deception had made him good at, well, lying and deception.
So what if it made things a little awkward every now and then? Because now? Now it was too goddamn late to tell her, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.
Dean shifted in his chair uncomfortably as the therapist looked between him and Buffy impassively. Secretly, he was holding out hope that this guy would turn out to be a demon. Then Dean could destroy any evidence that he was ever there. Still, it looked doubtful, unless analyzing someone to death was a demonic power.
At least there was one thing he was damn sure about; Sam would never
hear about this. Ever.
Just then, the therapist cleared his throat. “So, tell me,” he began. “Why have you come here?”
Buffy glanced at Dean, who only slouched further in his seat, a stubborn look on his face. She bit back a sigh of exasperation and looked back at the therapist.
“Well, we’re not having problems, per se. It’s like we’re one step before that. Maybe you could say that we’re problem-light,” she began. To her chagrin, however, Dean cut her off.
“We don’t have problems. Period,” he said firmly. At Buffy’s pointed look, he scowled before grudgingly adding, “We’re- we’re just here for some fine-tuning. Like a car.” He grinned at his choice of words. This wasn’t so bad.
“Not the Impala again,” Buffy groaned as she rolled her eyes. She looked at the therapist with a pained expression. “Do you know how much he loves that stupid car of his? It’s ridiculous.”
“My car is not stupid. She's a ’67 Chevy Impala,” Dean replied calmly, as if that explained everything.
The therapist made no reaction to either of their statements; instead he made some notations on his notepad before looking up at them. “On a scale from 1 to 10, how happy are you?” he asked.
There was a long pause; finally Dean muttered something under his breath.
The therapist looked at him closely. “Did you say a ‘5’?” he asked, unsure if he heard correctly.
Dean shook his head. “No, I said I take the Fifth,” he replied with a smirk.
“This is serious, Dean,” Buffy hissed out of the corner of her mouth, while smiling apologetically at the therapist.
“No matter what I answer, I’ll catch hell for it, so I’m taking the Fifth,” Dean declared. Then with a smug grin, he said, “Anyway, I haven’t heard you give a number yet, darlin’.”
Buffy became very flustered; she didn't want to be the first to answer. She gave the therapist a weak smile. “Well, happiness is so subjective, don’t you think?” she hedged. “And converting it into a scale of 1 to 10? I, uh, I’ve never been that good at math…”
“This isn’t math,” Dean pointed out, clearly not willing to give her an out. "It's picking a number, plain and simple."
Buffy frowned at him. “4,” she said tersely; she picked that number randomly, just to aggravate him. And it worked.
Now it was Dean’s turn to frown. “Is that with 1 being the most happy or the least?”
“You figure it out, Math Man,” she said primly, her eyes fixed firmly on the therapist.
The therapist made some more notes, and it was starting to really irritate Dean. Just as he was getting the urge to grab the pen and shove it where the sun didn’t shine, the therapist looked up at them.
“How often do you have sex?” he asked in a mild voice, knowing that this question often made couples uncomfortable. He waited, ready to gauge their reaction as much as their actual answer.
“Next question,” they both said immediately.
The therapist gave them a bland smile. “Just an estim-”
This time it was just Dean who replied. “Dude, we said next question.” His tone left no room for discussion. At all.
Couples were often reluctant to talk about their sex life; the therapist wasn’t surprised by their response. What he didn’t expect, however, was two pairs of hazel eyes piercing him with almost identical, steely gazes. He swallowed the unexplainable lump of fear that had formed in his throat.
“Why don’t you tell me how you two met, then?” he asked, desperately trying to regain the control he somehow lost.
Their demeanor instantly changed; Buffy blushed and looked down, suddenly fascinated by the piece of lint on her skirt, and Dean gave a self-satisfied smirk. It was Dean who answered first.
“The NC-17 version, or the one that’s cleaned up for the kiddies?”+++
Love it? Hate it? Or worst of all, just plain ambivalent?