Kill the Messenger

A Bates Motel Fanfiction

Summary: Unable to keep his secret any longer, Dylan tells Emma what he knows regarding her mother's disappearance. Determined to uncover the truth, they pay a visit to Bates Motel to get answers from Norman, but will they find what they are looking for? Imagining of season five. Dylemma. Major character death.

/!\ Warnings: Mild language, sensuality, and major character death. This chapter contains a scene of intense violence that may be disturbing to some readers.

Disclaimer: We own nothing!

A/N: We apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors in advance.


Chapter Four

Norman marched to the manager's office, keys jangling as he produced them. "Which suite are you staying in?"

Dylan shut the door to his pickup. "Suite? We're not staying in the motel, Norman. We aren't guests; we're family. Emma and I are sleeping in my old room."

Norman frowned. "You are?"

"Yes. And don't argue with me; it's too late for that. Help us carry our bags into the house."

"No! You should really sleep at the motel," he insisted. "It's much nicer. With Mother sick and all, it's been hard keeping house..."

"I told you before, Norman, and I'm telling you again: we are not staying in the motel. What's your problem?" Dylan's eyes narrowed. "Are you hiding something?"

Norman chuckled. "No, of course not! Why would I have a problem? I'm more than happy to help you with the bags."

"That's what I thought."

"Thanks, Norman," Emma grinned as her host took her bag and lugged it into the house, grunting all the way. He halted outside Dylan's room, immaculate as he left it.

"I'm going to bed. Good night." Before his guests could say likewise, he was gone.

"Tomorrow," Dylan told Emma once he shut the door and they readied themselves for bed.

"What about it?"

"We're going to ask him."

Nodding, Emma shut off the lights and climbed into bed beside Dylan, snuggling against him. "Definitely. Let's try to get some sleep; it's been a long day." She laid her head on his chest, lulled by his strong, steady heartbeat. Before she drifted into dreamland, Dylan bolted upright, startling her.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That." He glanced at the overhead vent. "I think it's coming from there. Listen."

"Of course I let them in, Mother! I didn't have much of a choice."

They looked at each other.

"I know, I know. It was a bad idea. They don't know a thing about what happened."

"I don't hear your mom responding," Emma said. "Is he talking to her over the phone?"

"Why would he? They're in the same room." Dylan swung his legs over the bed, and she followed him to the door. "I'm going to investigate." He opened it slowly, wincing as hinges groaned and floorboards creaked, then crept out. He knocked on Norma's door, and the conversation ceased at once.

"W-who is it?"

"It's me, Norman," Dylan replied. "Who else? Please open up. We need to talk."

"Uh, now isn't the best time. Mother and I are discussing...things."

"I want to see Norma, too."

"She's very sick!"

"Obviously not sick enough to carry on a conversation with you. No more games. Let me in."

"I can't."

"That's enough, Norman." Dylan pounded on the door. "Open up!" When he didn't, Dylan yelled, "If you won't let us in, I'll let ourselves in!" He advised Emma to step back and she did, eying him warily.

He kicked the door off its hinges. "Norman, what's -" He froze. Norma sat erect in a...throne...her vermillion dress evoking a nebulous recollection of a holiday banquet she and Dylan attended before Norman was born. Her cerulean eyes were a porcelain doll's - unmoving, unseeing. He ran toward her, knees buckling once he reached her.

"Norma! What?" He recoiled from the ice-cold flesh brushing against his fingers. He turned to Emma; her eyes were wide, hands clamped over her mouth to stifle a scream.

"Norman, what's going on?! Norma's dead!"

"She committed suicide after she split up from Romero."

"That was weeks ago! Our own mother died and you didn't tell me?" Norman said he wouldn't be hearing from her for 'a while,' but Dylan hadn't thought 'never.' "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"About Mother?" Norman's eyes flashed. "You barely treated her like one."

"I know we didn't have the best relationship, but she was still my mom!" Tears welled in his eyes. "God, Norman. You had her stuffed like one of your damn animals. What the hell is wrong with you?! You think this is okay in that twisted, warped, morbid mind of yours?" Why hadn't he buried or cremated her like a normal person? Poured her ashes into an ornamental urn to display on the mantelpiece or scatter across the sea?

He fled to the bathroom, crumpling in front of the toilet, emptying his stomach into it. He staggered toward the sink to wash his hands and face then dried them with a towel, wishing he could wipe his mind as easily as his skin.

Emma lingered outside the door, eyes red, cheeks tearstained. "Are you alright?"

"As alright as I can be in this situation."

"I think I'm ready to confront Norman," she said; Dylan nodded.

Norman approached them. "Dylan, are you -"

"Did you kill her, Norman? Audrey Decody?"

He blinked and in that instant, Dylan knew. "W-What?"

Emma's voice cracked. "Answer the question, Norman. Please, I need to know. Did you kill my mother?"

Norman's mouth moved, but no words emerged. Finally, he spluttered, "I don't - I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play stupid with us." Norman cowered into the wall as Dylan advanced on him. "I looked at the logs. She was here. She checked in, but never checked out. There was the letter she wrote for Emma, the stuffed rabbit...don't deny it because it's a waste of time. We know you killed her. Just tell us what happened."

"I don't know. I...I can't remember." His lower lip trembled. "I remember checking her in and before I knew it, she was gone. I was in the attic the other day, and I found a suitcase of her stuff. I was confused because I know it didn't belong to Mother, but as I went through it, the memories started coming back in pieces. And then I realized I had done something bad, something oh so very wrong." Tears rolled down his cheeks. "I swear, if I could go back in time and change this, I would. I hate having these…"

"Blackouts," Dylan said.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

I must report this. Maybe not to the authorities, but at least to Dr. Edwards. He spun toward Emma, the epitome of despair with her face in her hands. "I know you're scared, Norman," he said, tearing his eyes from her. "I talked to Norma a while ago, and it seemed like you were making excellent progress with your therapy. You need to return to Pineview."

He adamantly shook his head. "No, I'm not going back. I don't need help."

"Yes, you do. You're in denial. You're a danger to yourself and others. If you go back to therapy and take your medications, you will do fine."

"Dylan's right," Emma interjected. "Do as he says so no one else - including you - gets hurt." Or worse.

"I promise, I won't do anything like this ever again."

"You don't know that, Norman!" Dylan said. Would he ever understand? "I swear, I'll call Dr. Edwards right now." He didn't have his number, but a quick Google search would rectify that.

"Oh no you won't!" He whipped out a gun, aimed at Dylan's forehead.

Emma yelped; Dylan threw up his hands, reeling into the wall. "Whoa, Norman! Put that away. Where'd you get that, huh?" His jaw dropped. "Hey, that's mine!"

"Why do you have this, Dylan? Were you planning to kill me? To stop my supposed 'reign of terror'? Is that why you came?" Norman brandished the weapon.

"It's for protection. You know that. Now give it back." He slowly extended his hand.

"Protection from what? Me?"

"Please, Norman," Emma implored. "We won't call the doctor. We promise."

Dylan gnashed his teeth; he wouldn't be so lenient.

Norman cocked the hammer, forefinger on the trigger. "I don't believe you."

Seizing his chance, Dylan lunged, knocking them to the ground. "Give me the gun!" He jerked it toward him.

"No!" Norman yanked back.

"Give it to me!"

"Guys, stop!" Startled by Emma's scream, Dylan finger's twitched. Norman gasped, flinching when the gun erupted between them. They gaped at Emma, supine on the floor, red blooming across her negligee. Dylan dropped the gun, not caring his brother could retrieve it and shoot him in the back as he scrambled to her aid.

"Emma...no no no...Emma, speak to me." He held her face in his hands as she she clung to life. Blood trickled from her mouth, more soaking her pajamas pooling beneath her.

He gripped her hand.

"Dylan…"

"I'm sorry!" Tears coursed down his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -"

Emma closed her eyes. "Not...your...fault.…"

"Call 911!" When Norman didn't budge, Dylan bellowed, "Now! Hurry up! We don't have much time…" Norman snatched the phone from its cradle, murmuring into the receiver as Dylan stroked Emma's hair. Norman hung up, watching his brother's undoing from a distance, face ashen.

"Emma…"

"Dylan..."

He tried stanching the flow, but couldn't stop the crimson tide spilling between his and Emma's fingers, surging with each heartbeat until...nothing. Dylan gawked at her chest, willing it to rise again, but it never did. It never would.

"Emma...Emma! No!" He slumped over her, bawling until the tears ran dry. I killed her. Then, in a burst of clarity, he remembered. No, I hadn't. He stood, choking on tears, slowly revolving toward Norman.

"You. This is all your fault." He delivered a haymaker to his brother's nose, relishing the crunch of bone, the spurt of blood, the howl of pain. Norman stumbled to the floor, arms raised against the flurry of fists until they dropped to his sides when he lost consciousness, his face a swollen, bloody pulp. Dylan crashed on top, straddling him, and squeezed that scrawny neck.

"You...this...is all...your fault…" Dylan hissed before his vision faded to black.


A/N: Thanks for reading! The final chapter will be posted next week. Please let us know what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome!