Hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the chipped table, John Winchester sat alone in the dim light of the cramped motel room, the silence only broken by the faint hum of the overhead fluorescent lights and his own ragged breathing--In and out, slow, measured, and by all means, normal. But it was getting increasingly difficult to make the air fill his lungs. His body felt like it was on fire, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs, thumping louder than any boom he'd heard in the jungle. He'd been back from Vietnam for months now, but the weight of it still pressed on his chest, suffocating him.

Breathe. Breathe, damn it. John muttered under his breath, a mantra that had been drilled into him by his sergeant years ago.

It wasn’t just the war. It was everything. The nightmares. The faces he couldn't forget. The questions he couldn’t answer about where his life was heading now--Where he was heading. How could someone just move forward after all this, after being given a journal full of monsters and experiences that he had yet to live through? The thought of the future made his stomach twist. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping the sweat from his brow, but the world still felt off-kilter. His breaths were too fast, too desperate. His vision began to blur as panic crept its way up his spine like the rush of gunfire.

Stay calm... Please, just stay calm. He tried to coax, but the words sounded hollow and robotic, like they belonged to someone else. Vietnam had stolen too much from him. And maybe, just maybe, the future would too.