I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Home Again

Dylan Massett turned off the engine and sat and looked at the house.

He was terrified of it.

He sat and he looked at it and wished he was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

Anywhere else with Emma and Katie.

Or at least near Emma and Katie.

But he was determined.

He was set.

He was going to figure this shit out.

Norma's car pulled in next to him, his younger brother at the wheel.

And they locked eyes.

I'm here, Norman. You can't run away or hang up the phone now.

You're not getting away from me.

He unlatched the driver's door.

And paused.

I'm here at the motel. Norman's here. I'll call when I can.

Her reply came back almost immediately.

As if she had been timing his drive, keeping her phone close as she played with Emma.

Okay. Be safe. I love you.

Love you.

Then he got out of the car.

Norman looked irritated.

And strangely guilty. As if he'd been caught.

What'd I catch you doing, little brother?

"Hello, Dylan."

"Hey, Norman."

And then, without spoken consent, they walked in silence up to the house.

Everything looked exactly the same, maybe a little worse for wear.

But otherwise . . .

"I'll make us something to eat."

I could not be less hungry.

But he followed him anyway.

He was getting the creeps.

It looked exactly the same.

It smelled exactly the same.

As if time had frozen while he had been gone.

Her shoes, her heels, were even still in the living room . . .

"Parlor, Dylan it's called a parlor. Jeez, don't you have any refinement at all?"

"Guess not, Norma."

"Don't call me 'Norma'."

"Sorry. Norma."

. . . as if she had just kicked them off to rub her feet a little right before he had walked . . .

You sure she's not here, Norman?

Am I being punk'd?

There were cigarettes and a lighter on the piano though and he never . . .

"That's disgusting, Dylan. It kills your lungs and it makes you stink."

"Yeah, but it gives me a great singing voice."

So that was weird.

. . . into the house.

The kitchen was dirty and cluttered. Dishes piled in the sink.

"Ugh, dishwashers. They don't clean right."

"You could just eat off paper plates."

"Like a homeless hobo? I don't think so."

Discarded eatery stacked on the counters.

And the smell was vaguely . . . not pleasant.

A clear indicator that Norma Bates . . .

"You've been living here alone all this time?"

. . . wasn't home anymore.

"Yeah, I get by."

Living alone at twenty-two was okay.

Dingy one bedroom apartment. Mattress on the floor.

Tiny bath. Mildewed towels wadded up on the rod.

Minuscule kitchen with half a burner and an ancient stove with temperature knobs missing.

Garbage can brimming with empty Taco Bell bags.

That was normal. Not ideal. But normal.

Living alone in this musty masoleum of someone else's crap was awful.

Oh god.

"Norman, you should've called me. You shouldn't be living by yourself."

Wilted flowers. Smudgy windows.

Norman hiding in his sandwich-making.

Glancing over his shoulder to Dylan from time to time.

This is bad.

This place is bad.

No, 'bachelor pad, hey, look at me, I do what I want' bad.

But like lost little boy with a dead mother bad.

"It's okay. The motel's still running."

How? It's a piece of crap. It was always a piece of crap.

". . . Emma?"

The light of my life.

The light of all life.

"She's good. We got married."

Why does this sound like ashes here?

"We have a baby."

Why does it sound like a lie?

Babies, helpless little babies, have the power to break down the world.

Almost any barrier at all.

"You have a baby?"

Even the Fortress of Solitude that was Norman Bates' severe withdrawn social awkwardness.

And Dylan found himself reaching out . . .

"Yeah, a little girl. Katie."

. . . opening his phone, finding a good picture.

They're all good pictures.

Norman holding the phone, gazing at Dylan and Emma's miracle baby.

Murmuring . . .

"A girl."

. . . to himself.

And looking up again, eyes bright with tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't call you."

And suddenly he looked so sick and tired, Dylan felt a wave of forgiveness and concern for his baby brother wash over him.

"I'm so sorry I haven't seen you for so long. It's just . . ."

So forlorn.

"Everyday is a small century."

And Dylan felt like he was finally getting through to him.

Getting somewhere, breaking through that hard, protective armour shell.

Simply by being there and listening and caring.

Just like Emma had taught him to d-

And then Norman's eyes glazed over.

As he gazed over Dylan's shoulder.

And drew away once more, face pulling in, shoulders tensing again.

And Dylan felt . . .

What-

. . . a wave of trepidation skitter over him.

Trying not to lose the ground they had gained.

"Are you still seeing your doctor?"

Calm and casual inquiry.

No, of course Norman wasn't.

He had only ever gone to placate Norma.

And with her absent helicoptering, he didn't even . . .

"I really don't think I need them."

Mentally ill people never think they need them.

. . . take his meds.

And there he was, Norman, doing it again.

Looking over Dylan's shoulder.

At the empty hall beyond.

With a quietly reserved face of fear.

What?

Then he edged closer and Dylan felt something bad surreshing through his brain.

Which only got worse as Norman spoke.

"The only thing is, I do sometimes miss our mother."

Our mother?

Norman's gaze was unsettling in its intensity.

As if he were silently trying to communicate something it was unsafe to put into words.

"So very much, Dylan, I can even tell you."

"It's just not the same."

All these statements seemed obvious.

Of course, Norman would miss the mother he and Norman both shared.

Of course it wouldn't be the same.

So why we're those statements causing Dylan's marrow to chill?

As if the meanings were deeper.

As if Norman were trying to communicate something, something very important that it was imperative that Dylan grasp.

"And it never will be."

And Dylan Massett could see that his little brother.

Was scared.

Of what, Norman? What are you so afraid of?

But he couldn't figure it out, as much as he tried.

But he was . . .

"I don't think you're well, Norman."

. . . afraid.

Of him. And for him.

"And I don't think you should be living here alone."

Not his home. Not Seattle.

Not too close to Emma and Katie.

But somewhere other than this godawful, still, rotten masoleum of a cloyingly haunted house.

Norman stayed taunt and intense.

"Well, living anywhere else, any other way is not an option."

Okay not really a surprising statement. But why?

Dylan hadn't exactly expected Norman to joyfully go skipping back to Pineview.

Okay, meet him on his own ground.

"Look, I'm going to stay with you for a couple of days. And we're going to get this all figured out."

And I'm going to need to buy a lot more antacid.

Because Norman was staring back over Dylan's shoulder again.

And it was scaring him, freaking him out.

And then shunting away . . .

". . . lie down."

. . . off upstairs.

Leaving Dylan .. .

. . . to his own devices.

The way Dylan just immediately chooses to help Norman breaks my heart. It's so self sacrificial, God bless him.