My last dream of 2020
On December 30th, I had a dream that I was Sam Winchester, circa 1997/1998, and me and John were driving away from a case, or something like it. We'd been tying up loose ends with a woman who owned a quirky and luxurious house. (The house was purple. The furniture was purple. The woman's hair-her name was Savanna-was dyed bright purple.) As we were driving away, we turned off of her road onto a county road, and at the corner was an enormous sign, ground-level but billboard-sized, advertising "Savanna's House!!!" (The house was a private residence.) All this was located in a fairly isolated rural area, all flat Midwest farmland. It was an overcast winter day. The fields were bare and brown. The sign was illuminated, garish, glitzy, and purple. It made me sad in a way I didn't quite understand.
We also passed some sort of lodging that appeared to be either closed or out of business. I had at some point seen inside through the large windows: it was a single large room with a central fireplace, a kitchenette, and bunks along the walls. On the singular table there was a forgotten plastic retail bag and two fake daffodils in a vase.
We drove a few miles and I (Sam) wondered if John (Dad) knew where Dean would be, or if he was just guessing at it; either way, that had to be where we were headed. A couple days ago, Dean had gotten so worked up about the case that he'd left before it was taken care of. He didn't try to hide his departure, but he wasn't open about where he planned on going. John had just let it happen. Sam (I) had a roiling ambivalence about that.
We got to a dirt road that rolled through a little patch of woods, and John made a late left turn toward it. And then kept turning left, using the width of the road to circle the car around until we were back on the same road, going the opposite direction. He drove us all the way back to Savanna's sign and the weird cabin-hostel, which was apparently open, and at which we would be staying as reserved guests, amongst who knows what other guests. What the hell.
John had told me nothing about this inexplicable plan. And he wouldn't say anything about Dean. I was seething.
When I asked him, "What about Dean?" he said, "He'll be back."
Of course he would be back. I didn't doubt that he'd be back. I wanted to know if he was okay. It wasn't like him to leave in the middle of a case.
When Sam (I) pressed Dad (John) about this, he said, "He'll be fine. He probably has a truck." (He probably stole a truck.)
And even though me-as-Sam was fairly livid about this response, I myself am very charmed by the Winchester definition of "fine," and how often it increases rather than decreases with every crime the person in question has committed.
We also passed some sort of lodging that appeared to be either closed or out of business. I had at some point seen inside through the large windows: it was a single large room with a central fireplace, a kitchenette, and bunks along the walls. On the singular table there was a forgotten plastic retail bag and two fake daffodils in a vase.
We drove a few miles and I (Sam) wondered if John (Dad) knew where Dean would be, or if he was just guessing at it; either way, that had to be where we were headed. A couple days ago, Dean had gotten so worked up about the case that he'd left before it was taken care of. He didn't try to hide his departure, but he wasn't open about where he planned on going. John had just let it happen. Sam (I) had a roiling ambivalence about that.
We got to a dirt road that rolled through a little patch of woods, and John made a late left turn toward it. And then kept turning left, using the width of the road to circle the car around until we were back on the same road, going the opposite direction. He drove us all the way back to Savanna's sign and the weird cabin-hostel, which was apparently open, and at which we would be staying as reserved guests, amongst who knows what other guests. What the hell.
John had told me nothing about this inexplicable plan. And he wouldn't say anything about Dean. I was seething.
When I asked him, "What about Dean?" he said, "He'll be back."
Of course he would be back. I didn't doubt that he'd be back. I wanted to know if he was okay. It wasn't like him to leave in the middle of a case.
When Sam (I) pressed Dad (John) about this, he said, "He'll be fine. He probably has a truck." (He probably stole a truck.)
And even though me-as-Sam was fairly livid about this response, I myself am very charmed by the Winchester definition of "fine," and how often it increases rather than decreases with every crime the person in question has committed.