DISCLAIMER: The standard disclaimers apply. I don't own anyone, I only play with them and sometimes try to get into their heads.
NOTES: This is an archive post, so I don't lose any more stories (repeat after me: back-ups of the hard drive are good. So good.) If anyone wants to know the significance of the bird, let me know and I'll post it on my journal. 386 words. Not beta'd.
In Tolkien's Fellowship of the Ring, Tom Bombadil asks Frodo, "Tell me - who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?" It got me to thinking – no one is the most alone, themselves and nameless than in the midst of a dream. I was also interested in why Dean seems so comfortable on the move, instead of wanting a "normal" life like Sam. Here's the result.
Dean dreams of home. It isn't a physical place, yet he knows every inch of it as if he's lived here all his life. In a way, he has. He's dreamed of this place as long as he can remember. He's come to think it of the one place he can truly call his own and it keeps him sane. No matter where he goes or how long he stays, he always comes home.
Home to Dean is a two story farmhouse sitting in the middle of what used to be bustling corn fields. Now, instead of corn, the prairie reclaims its territory under the noon day sun. Thousands of wildflowers - bluestem, clover and coneflowers - nod their heads in the gentle breeze.
Sometimes he thinks it would be nice to live somewhere where the trees grow right up to the house but he'll never do it. Old habits and lessons die hard and he knows trees simply allow things to sneak up unnoticed. Plus, somewhere very deep down it's hard to take the Kansas out of the boy although he'll never admit it, not even to himself.
He leans back in a straight back chair on the front porch, one leg propped up on the railing and an ice cold beer in his hand. He laughs at himself when he realizes he is nodding his head in time with some of the coneflowers, as if he and all of nature are part of one big, riotous head banging concert.
Once, twice, three times, a peregrine falcon comes into Dean's line of vision. It is dancing on the wind currents over the fields and he watches it idly, content with having absolutely nothing else to do. One last time, the falcon flies into view. Up, up, up into the blue sky it flies, riding the thermals, only to spiral down and rocket across the prairie, barely skimming the tops of the bobbing seed heads of the bluestem. It goes on its way to find another thermal and Dean lifts the bottle to his lips. The beer tastes exceptionally good.
When Dean dreams of home, there are no demons or monsters. He doesn't have to worry about protecting Sam or being a good son. When Dean dreams of home, he is at peace with the world.