Being back at home was a novelty that wore off quickly. With an injured hand he was unable to push himself around in the wheelchair, relying on his mom to help him get out of bed and into the shower, to get dressed and even take a leak. Whilst he loved his mom dearly, and her exceptional cooking skills, he was glad of his bi-weekly appointments back at the hospital for physiotherapy.
Sam drove him to Topeka twice a week, getting in to work late on those days but he assured Dean his boss had okayed it so he could make up the time on the three days he wasn't ferrying his brother around. Dean only felt a little guilty, after all Sam seemed to enjoy the thirty minute drive to and from the hospital with him.
His physio Al, a big guy with short blonde hair, reminded Dean of one of the drill sergeants he'd had during his interrogation training for the Marines way back when. Alistair had been a sadistic son of a bitch, and Dean recognised some of those same qualities in Al. Well, Dean would say they were similar when Al was yelling 'motivation' at Dean to work harder and push through the pain, but he figured Al was trying to help, Alistair was just a bastard.
Al focused on Dean's hand and back to start with, only giving him a few exercises to get the knee moving again while it healed. Once their two hour session was up, Dean had time to float around in the therapy pool or soak in one of the individual hot tubs used to relax muscles. To start with he needed help to get in and out of the pool or tub, but after a few weeks his hand was strong enough to take his weight momentarily as he lifted himself into his chair.
Getting the use of his hand back felt like progress and gave him a small sense of independence he'd been lacking for so long. He'd had a few mishaps which found him sprawled across the floor, chair on its side and a friendly nurse or physiotherapist rushing to his side, which frustrated him to no end. But all in all it was progress.
The therapy on his knee got tougher and the harder he worked the more it hurt. With his hand back in play, Al was getting him to try walking once a week using the parallel bars for support but it more often than not ended in an angry Dean pounding his fist into the soft mat on the floor.
He was getting angry and frustrated more often, not only during his sessions with Al but at home with his mom and brother as well. It had been almost a month since he'd been released from hospital and although the two days a week he spent back there were a distraction, he spent the other five days trying to find something to occupy his time but he just couldn't find the concentration or motivation to do anything knowing that he was no way near fit enough to take the road trip he'd planned.
The press had given up their vigil in Topeka and Lawrence after a week in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him, which meant his mother could wheel him out places whenever they wanted, but he was sick of the well-wishers and stares from strangers so he asked to stay at home.
At home he felt safer. When Mary had taken him out on a few occasions in the last week he found himself on high alert, he was vulnerable in the chair and couldn't relax for a good ten minutes when they eventually got back to the house. He knew his mom had noticed because she asked if he'd reconsidered the therapy offered by the hospital when he was discharged, which he'd turned down at the time – he was fine! He hadn't and was determined he wouldn't need it. She didn't seem convinced.
The next day, he found himself sat on a mat doing some stretching exercises with Al in front of the long floor to ceiling mirror that ran along one entire side of the physiotherapy gym. He had to admit, Al's voice had a very calming quality when it wasn't shouting 'motivation' at him.
"Now reach all the way up to the ceiling, higher. Bend forward at the waist and stretch to touch your toes."
Dean huffed, he was nowhere near touching his toes and Al insisted on trying to hold his knee as close to the floor as the pain would allow, which wasn't very close at all.
"That's good Dean, much better than last week." He pressed slightly harder on the knee earning a small grunt from his patient.
The weight on the knee was lifted. "And slowly roll back up t-"
Al's dulcet tones were abruptly cut off by a loud clash of metal on metal and an almighty bang. Dean flattened himself to the floor, rolling onto his front and covering his head with his arms. He ignored the burning in his knee as his heart thundered in his chest, eyes squeezed shut and breathing erratically. All he could hear was the high pitched ringing tone from the explosion in his ears, the Humvee was flipped, he knew he had to find his team and make sure they were okay.
Blinking he lifted his head slowly, but instead of the harsh Middle Eastern sun beating down on him, he saw his own deer in headlight reflection looking back at him. The sounds of the room started to filter back to him as the ringing stopped. He registered Al's firm, grounding hand between his shoulder blades and the distant "It's okay Dean, you're alright".
After a few minutes, Al left Dean propped up against the mirrored wall with his head between his knees while he went to get some water. Dean took the time to look around the room. No one was paying him much attention, there were a few physiotherapists with patients scattered around using different equipment, and someone stacking weights back onto a stand. That must have been the crash that set him off, he was having a goddamn panic attack over a load of weights falling over.
"How you doing?" Al asked holding out a cup of water as he sat next to Dean.
The Marine accepted the water and took a slow sip. "Not so great, I guess."
"Yeah, I get it. You're not the first Marine I've worked with." Al sighed. "Look, I know it's not my place, I'm just hear to get you walking again, but I know you turned down the therapy and I think that was a mistake."
"You sound like my brother."
"Great minds and all that," He laughed, earning a small smile from Dean. "But Sam has a point, I've seen the signs creeping over you – you're anxious when you turn up, you're getting frustrated more and Sam says you've stopped going outside. You fall over because you're not concentrating and you look like you aren't sleeping properly. And now this…"
"I get the picture, alright?" Dean snapped.
"If you think being diagnosed with PTSD will stop you getting back to duty, you're kidding yourself. You're getting a medical discharge for the knee alone."
If Dean could have stormed off he would have, instead he screwed up the empty cup of water and threw it across the room.
"Leave me alone!" He yelled, face red from holding back unshed tears. He grabbed his head in his hands, hair sticking out between his fingers, and cried.
That's where Sam found him several hours later, sat in the brace position with tear stains on his cheeks.
He did get an honourable discharge from the Marines, on medical grounds they said, but he knew that already. They also said he'd get a medal but he refused the invite to the ceremony, they said they'd get it to him anyhow.
He did however agree to start therapy at his family and Al's insistence – the man refused to let Dean back into the gym unless he was committed to healing his mind as well as his body. Dean didn't peg the guy for the hippy mumbo-crap, but he needed to walk and drive so he relented.
The first session with the psychotherapist, Chuck, was stilted at best. Dean was reluctant to talk about anything, even though the questions to start were pretty tame as the therapist tried to get to know Dean a little.
They avoided the glaringly obvious topic of Afghanistan, which Dean was silently grateful for, but with twenty minutes left of the session conversation turned to how Dean was feeling after the incident at the gym.
"I'm a soldier, have been for most of my life; it's my job- It was my job to be alert and aware of threats. It's what I'm programmed for." Dean tried to explain his reaction to the weights falling over, but he wasn't convincing himself let alone the therapist. "I- Uh. I guess I've been a little on edge since I got back."
"Dean, that on edge feeling you have all the time, we call that hyperarousal." Chuck said, avoiding the reasons why in their first session, he'd have to probe much deeper in later sessions so Dean could confront what happened head on instead of avoiding it, but he didn't want to put him off just yet.
"That's the one thing I've not been," he muttered.
"No," Chuck's mouth turned up into a slight smile at the insinuation. "Hyperarousal is when you get anxious and easily startled, like the episode in the gym. You're always on the lookout for threats and find it difficult to relax. It's a symptom of PTSD."
Dean could have argued his case, but what Chuck was saying rang true. He was wound tight like a coiled spring and was close to snapping.
"Are you experiencing a lowered sex drive or failing to get erections?" Chuck asked making a note in the file.
"Dude!"
The mortified look on Dean's face was enough information for now.
"A subject for another time, perhaps? It's coming up to an hour anyway. I'm going to write you a prescription for an anti-depressant."
"I'm not depressed." Dean cut in.
"It will help you relax, and hopefully sleep. Take one with your evening meal and we'll see how it goes, it's not a strong dosage so shouldn't knock you out for the entire next day but we'll take it slow and make sure we get the right dose for you."
Chuck scribbled on a smaller pad of paper and tore off the page, thrusting it at Dean with instructions to get the prescription filled at the hospital's pharmacy.
Dean filled the prescription all right, but he refused to take the pills that night, or the night after. It was only after a particularly loud crash from the kitchen where his mother was making a pie, which had him shaking and frozen to the spot, that he was forced to acknowledge the problem.
Mary had walked back into the front room ten minutes after wrestling the pie tin out of a crowded cupboard to find Dean still frozen in place, shivering in shock with wide glassed over eyes staring straight ahead.
"Dean, sweetie?" She rushed to him and knelt on the floor in front of the couch he was sat on. She carefully cradled his face in her hands and turned it to face her. "Come back to me, Dean."
It took a few long minutes of Mary's thumb stroking Dean's cheek and her humming Hey Jude before his eyes refocused to look at his mother. The look of realisation on his face broke her heart as she pulled him in for a hug.
"Please take the tablets, I'm sure they'll help." She whispered, kissing his temple when he nodded in agreement.
The next day Dean slept the morning away thanks to the pill he took with dinner. He was grumpy when he eventually emerged from his room and chastised his mother for letting him sleep in until lunch, she argued that he needed the sleep before leaving him in the kitchen eating lunch and festering in his own foul mood.
There was a knock at the door around three in the afternoon. Mary left Dean in the back garden, where they'd been drinking coffee in the warm afternoon sun, to answer the door.
She was surprised to find a tall dark haired man, in full dress uniform, looking nervously at her from across the threshold.
"Good afternoon, ma'am." The tall stranger said hesitantly. "I'm looking for Captain Dean Winchester."
Mary Winchester narrowed her eyes, assessing the handsome soldier in front of her. She determined he was trustworthy, he seemed like he had a kind soul. "I'm his mother, who's asking?"
"I'm Colonel Cas Novak, I led the team that rescued him from Hel-"
The air was push out of his lungs as Mary Winchester threw her arms around him in a tight bear hug. He was taken by surprise and floundered for a second before embracing her.
"Thank you," The older lady cried into his chest. "Thank you for bringing my son back to me."
