Work Text:
Diane and Sam Reid seem normal enough.
According to their file, they’re the typical suburban couple. Married six years, with one five-year-old son. Sam is a data entry clerk, while Diane is a pediatrician. Forty-six and forty-four respectively. Perhaps a bit older than most parents, but nothing overtly amiss with the Reids.
Carol taps her pen against her chin as she continues to peer through their file. There isn’t much else. They’d only emailed a few times, and the only explanation provided for seeking therapy was ‘marital problems’. Their first session was scheduled for 2 pm to 3 pm on Tuesday. She supposes she’ll just have to wait until then to find out more.
—
Carol’s first impression is they’re a very attractive couple. Diane is medium height, with sharp cheekbones and brown hair down to her shoulders. Sam is tall and wide-shouldered, especially fit for his age, with brown hair that stops just below his ears.
“Where can we sit?” Diane asks, voice flat but polite.
“On the couch is okay,” Carol responds, “Unless either of you would prefer the armchair?”
“Couch is fine,” Diane says, smiling thinly. The couple sit on the couch but maintain a slight distance. Diane sits up straight with her hands clasped in her lap, while Sam curls in on himself, arms crossed.
“Do we call you Dr. Davis or Carol?” Diane asks.
“Carol is fine,” Carol answers warmly. She adjusts the notepad in her lap. “How was the drive here?”
“Good,” Sam answers, speaking for the first time since he’d entered the room, “We live in Dustin, so it’s only a 20-minute drive.”
“I’m sorry,” Diane says, “Do mind if we skip the pleasantries?”
“Of course. This is your time.”
“Great.”
“Could you tell me a bit about your relationship?” Carol asks.
“It’s great,” Sam says at the same time Diane says, “Strained.” They exchange an awkward look.
“Strained is an interesting word. How so?”
Diane laughs awkwardly, “God, where to start? Well for starters, Sam doesn’t open up to me. At all.”
Sam huffs, “It’s not like I have to tell her every little thing about me. She’s just… paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid. I feel the same way any person would about knowing zilch in regards to the last forty years of their husband's life,” Diane says, “Right?”
“I understand how that would be frustrating.”
“He could be a criminal for all I know.”
“I’m not.” Sam says, but his voice wavers, “I’m just a private person.”
“Private? That’s an understatement. I don’t even know what your mom’s name is.” Diane says.
“Why would you even want to know that.”
“It’s the principle of it.”
Diane gives Carol a look as if to say see what I deal with?
“Why don’t you like to share your past with Diane?” Carol asks Sam, “Are you afraid she’d use it against you?”
Sam shrugs, “I just don’t like having to think about it.”
“I can understand that, but for the sake of your relationship do you think you could open up a bit?”
Diane looks at Sam expectantly.
Sam sighs, “Sure. Fine. My mother’s name was Mary.” He dosen’t say more.
“Do you think you could share more?” Carol asks.
“Like what.” Sam snaps.
Diane gives him a disapproving look. Carol smiles in an attempt to lessen the tension in the room. She’s not successful.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know, Diane?”
“Just—What was your childhood like? Have you been married before? Where did you grow up?”
Sam rolls his eyes, “Complicated, no, and all over. Is that enough?”
“No, Sam, it’s not,” Diane huffs.
“You used the word ‘complicated’,” Carol comments, “Could you expand?”
Sam shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. Sure. It was just. We moved around a lot. I never stayed in a school long enough to make friends.”
“We?”
“My dad and brother.” Sam clarifies. At the mention of brother Diane tenses. Carol chooses not to comment on it for the time being.
“Why did you move around so much?” Carol asks.
“For my dad’s work,” Sam says, “He was a mechanic,” Sam says the word like it’s venom in his mouth.
Carol nods, “You said you moved schools a lot. That sounds difficult, you must have been lonely.”
“No,” Sam says, “It wasn’t.” His face softens for a split second, “I had my brother.”
“You two were close?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, voice just above a whisper. “Something like that.”
Carol writes down brother in her notes. She turns to Diane, “Did you know about Sam’s brother?”
Diane laughs, “Jesus, how couldn’t I? He has a safe of his things in our closet. It’s full of just junk: old flannels, a flask, mix tapes, a weird brass necklace—which he never wears but the way he acts about it you’d think it was made of gold. At least that’s what I’ve caught glimpses of. Only Sam has the combination to the safe and he’s possessive over it.”
Sam bristles, “It’s not junk.”
“Also! He keeps his brother’s car—which he never uses—in the garage and blows a fuse whenever I suggest we sell it. He refuses to drive it but sometimes sits in it for hours. Not that anyone else is allowed near it.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
“His brother’s all he talks about.” Diane explains, lips pursed, “But it's like. He doesn’t share details about him. It just slips out. It’s always ‘Oh I used to watch that with my brother’ or ‘My brother used to do that’. But the second you ask for more information he clams up. It’s… frustrating.”
“I don’t owe you details about him,” Sam says defensively, “He’s… He’s not something you can just get a piece of.”
Diane rolls her eyes, “God, you act like he’s your best-kept secret or your childhood sweetheart.”
Sam doesn’t respond to that, but the way his cheeks flush is telling enough.
“Sam?” Carol asks, “What do you think about what Diane has said?”
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
Diane huffs but doesn’t protest. “Fine,” She says, voice sardonic and tight, “How about we talk about our sex life then?” Sam bristles.
Carol tilts her head, “What about your sex life?”
“Well for starters it’s nearly nonexistent.”
Sam stiffens, “I don’t owe you sex, Diane.”
“I never said you did,” Diane retorts, “You’re being defensive.”
“Let’s try to use ‘I feel’ statements,” Carol interjects.
“Fine, I feel like you’re being defensive.”
“Good.” Carol says smiling, before turning to Sam, “What do you think about what Diane has said?”
“I think she needs to stop being so obsessed with the sex thing.”
“He’s just embarrassed,” Diane explains, “He has a difficult time getting hard.”
Sam bristles, but doesn’t respond. Carol nods her head and in her notes writes erectile dysfunction.
“Is that the main cause for the lack of sex?”
“Yes and no,” Diane answers, she opens her mouth to say more but hesitates.
“Could you say more?”
Diane’s face screws up, “I don’t know how to say this next thing.”
Sam interjects, “She thinks it's a bigger deal than it is.”
Diane glares at Sam, “You’re just saying that because you’re ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?” Carol asks, peering curiously at the couple.
“Sam has these… fetishes.”
Sam blushes and looks down, but doesn't say anything to contradict.
“Fetishes aren’t uncommon,” Carol says, “What is the nature of these fetishes?”
“Sam needs pain to get hard.”
“Pain?”
“Hitting,” Diane explains, “And I don’t mean spanking or slapping. Like. Punching. Sometimes choking.”
“Okay,” Carol nods, “Sam, why do you think you feel the need for pain to reach sexual gratification?”
“I don’t—I just. It helps.”
“It’s not normal,” Diane insists, “I mean—Look, I’m sex-positive. I don’t really understand kink or whatever but I don’t—It’s not like I think kinky sex is bad. But he wants me to beat him. It’s not—I mean it, I’m not gonna abuse my husband.”
“It wouldn’t be abuse if I want it,” Sam protests, “I don’t understand why you think it’s such a big deal.”
“Okay,” Carol says, sensing the tension rising, “How about we—”
“The first time he asked me to hit him was our second time having sex. Second time. He just—It’s going great and then he just blurts out ‘can you hit me’. Like what am I suppose to say to that?”
Sam looks embarrassed. “You could’ve at least acted like it didn’t disgust you. That I didn’t disgust you.”
“You asked me to beat you, Sam, how did you think I would react? Christ.”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have said it. Especially since it’s been seven years and you have yet to let it go,” Sam says through clenched teeth.
“He also—He can’t be pinned down during sex. He doesn’t like it when I’m on top. Even though I’m like less than half his weight and completely non-threatening, he can’t stand it. He can only do doggy style. I think it’s a PTSD thing.”
“Oh, is it a crime to have preferences now?” Sam retorts. His fists are clenched tightly on his knees.
“I never said that.”
“What Diane said about PTSD,” Carol says, “Is that true?”
“No,” Sam says at the same time Diane says, “Not officially.”
Sam rolls his eyes at his wife’s statement, ‘You’re a pediatrician, Diane, not a psychologist.”
“It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure it out. He’s depressed too. And half a billion other things.”
“Don’t say that!” Sam interjects, offended. “You don’t know close to enough about me to make claims like that.”
“Yeah. That’s the problem, Sam. I’m your wife of nearly a decade and I still don’t know why you jump at sudden sounds or cringe whenever we pass a diner or puke at the sight of raw meat,” Diane says, “Which aren’t exaggerations. He can’t be in the kitchen when I make hamburgers.”
“I have a sensitive stomach,” Sam insists.
“He used to sleep with a gun under his pillow. I had to beg him to stop. Now he just keeps it in the nightstand. We live in the safest part of town. That’s not normal.”
“It’s just a force of habit,” Sam insists.
“Yeah. That’s still not normal.”
Carol writes down in her notepad PTSD? Veteran?
“Are you scared that something will happen, Sam?” Carol asks.
“No—Well, I mean—Anything can happen. Anytime. It’s just good to be prepared.”
“Sure, Sam,” Diane interjects, “And salt on our windowsills helps us prepare how?” She says mockingly.
“I’m just superstitious,” Sam explains.
“Back to sex,” Diane says, “He says other people’s names in bed.”
“Oh?” Carol says. In her notepad, she writes cheater?
“Yeah. He’s said Ruby before. Once Toni. He—” Diane laughs through her nose, “He said Lucifer once. Like the Devil. I don’t even know what that’s about.”
Sam says nothing, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
“I used to think he was cheating on me. Because of the Ruby thing. Then after he said Lucifer I wondered if it was like, a sex fantasy or something. Except. Well. He doesn’t really say their names in pleasure. Sometimes when we have sex it’s like he’s lost in his head, and he says those names because he’s reliving something else.”
Carol turns to Sam, “Does that sound accurate, Sam?”
Sam shrugs, “Sure. I guess.”
“Are you remembering bad experiences?”
Sam stills, then gives a sharp nod of his head.
“I think it’s a PTSD thing,” Diane explains. “He won’t admit it, but the way he acts sometimes… It makes me think he was like. Raped or something.”
Sam tenses. “Don’t—Don’t use that word.” He says.
“Is that true,” Carol inquires, “Were you sexually assaulted?”
“I wasn’t—It’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Okay. That's okay, Sam. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
Diane pipes up suddenly, “There’s another thing. About the names.”
Sam jolts, “Diane—”
“He said our son’s name during sex.”
Carol doesn’t know what to say to that.
Sam has his face in his hands.
“Yeah. It was one of the few times I agreed to indulge in his… fetish. And he moaned our son’s name. Then came. So. It wasn’t a PTSD thing. And that’s—that’s fucked up.”
“Well,” Carol says as she writes down in her notepad pedophile?
“It wasn’t about DJ,” Sam says quietly, his gaze downcast, “I’d never…” He trailed off.
“DJ is your son?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, sniffling a bit, “Stands for Dean Jr. So if it makes it any better it was about, y’know, the original Dean.”
“Oh.” Carol says, crossing pedophile out. “Did you know this, Diane?”
Diane laughs, “Yeah, of course I did. Otherwise, I would’ve called the fucking cops. But it’s still fucked up.”
Carol nods, “I understand how Sam saying an ex-lover's name in bed could be upsetting.”
Diane raises her eyebrows and purses her lips, “Dean isn’t Sam’s ex-lover.”
“Oh? Who’s Dean?”
Diane looks over at Sam expectingly. Sam shifts in his seat uncomfortably.
“Dean was my brother.”
Carol has to fight herself to keep her expression appropriate.
“Was?” She asks.
“He’s dead.”
Carol writes down incest complex and Dean: dead brother.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sam.”
“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”
Diane huffs, but remains silent.
“Okay,” Carol says, closing her notepad, “Our time is up for today.”
Diane stands up briskly, “Thank you, Dr. Davis.”
Sam gets up slowly, “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course,” Diane says as she opens the door for them, ‘I’ll see you two same time next week.”