He couldn't breathe.
His hands were scratching erraticly at the blanket he was tangled in, trying to kick and push away the oppressing heat as his vision began to darken.
Forcing his eyes shut for a moment he listened to his blood pulsing through his veins, throbbing in his head and tried to align his breathing.
Slowly opening his eyes as his breathing evened out his vision came back, the blanket unfurled down to his waist and a shaking hand curled into his sweaty hair.
When he finally clamed down enough he pushed himself into a sitting position with his head in his hands.
Once more taking a deep breath, he pushed himself out of his bed and dragged his feet into the small bathroom.
The dimly lit space did nothing for his complexion and after grimacing into the small cabinet mirror he stripped and took a warm, calming shower.
His thoughts wandered to the nightmare he just got out of. It was always the same, always him standing there not able to move as Valentine shot Harry.
He knew there was nothing he could've done, he wasn't even in the same country for god's sake, but the utter helplessnes that overcame him as he watched Harry die on the computer never quite vanished. It had been a year today, he realised.
The world went on, Daisy and his mother finally moved in with him leaving Dean to himself and he himself worked relentlessly as Galahad trying to make his mentor proud.
But every now and then, such as today, he'd wake up in the middle of a panic attack, unable to breath, terror clawing at his neck as he relived that faitful day. And he knew by now, that he'd never overcome this.
Never overcome, that the last words spoken between them were not words of reassurance and pride, but of irritation. So he'd take the cloying panic as his due, as his punishment – and then he'd breath in and out again and push himself up and keep on living, because he knew that that's what Harry would've wanted, what his father would've wanted, what Daisy and his mom needed him to do.
He turned off the shower and took a deep breath.