The old handbooks were careful to ask what kind of fire the dream showed. A contained flame, the hearth, the lamp, the sacrificial fire, carried senses of life, household and worship, while fire loose in a city or a field was calamity, and the Greek interpreters read the two nearly as opposite dreams. Fire from heaven belonged to a third register altogether, since lightning and unconsumed burning were the signature of the gods across the ancient Near East, and a fire that burns without destroying has marked divine presence at least since the burning bush of Exodus, a waking vision that fixed the image for three faiths.
The modern psychologies kept the doubleness. The Freudian tradition read fire toward passion and its risks; the Jungian toward transformation, the fire in which one state of a substance, or a person, is destroyed so that another can emerge, an image that tradition borrowed knowingly from alchemy's calcination. Gaston Bachelard devoted a small classic, The Psychoanalysis of Fire, to the reveries fire breeds, arguing that its meanings come less from experience than from the imagination's love of the element.
All of these are readings, made within traditions with commitments, and the same dream fire has been read as anger, purification, love, ruin and God. The context of the flame, contained or loose, feeding or consuming, is the one detail every school asks for first.