I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Bad to Worse
Confessed to murder.
The little shit had called the cops and confessed to murder.
Dylan had been planning to help him get back into Pineview or somewhere psychiatric that could help him.
He isn't a bad person, he's just crazy.
But now he had gone with the sheriff and god knew what he was telling her.
Dylan was left with a busted, throbbing head.
And a whole new list of problems.
He had been planning to stay at the house with Norman while they worked out what to do.
He would have been willing to manage the Haunted House of Bates as much as he needed in the dark hours of the night for his brother.
But now, with Norman in jail, there was no way in hell he was going to set foot there for more than a few minutes in the broad daylight hours when he absolutely needed to.
It's haunted or something.
Steals your soul.
Like Silent Hill or something.
It messes with your head.
So that was out.
Firstly . . .
"Hi. I'd like a room please."
"Holy hell, what happened to you?"
. . . getting a room at the King's Motel . . .
"Bad night."
"I'd say so. Want some Tylenol?"
"Yeah, that be great."
. . . at one in the morning, looking like a bad bar fight.
He'd showered, brushed his teeth, and fallen . . .
I feel like I'm forgetting something.
. . . into bed without texting Emma.
It was lonely there in that motel
His phone buzzed on the floor at seven, causing him to her awake . . .
Ahhh-
. . . pulling at his stitches.
And refreshening his near migraine.
Are you okay? What's happening?
Yeah. I'm good. Call you soon.
Okay. Love you.
Love you.
But he hadn't called her.
He had called Remo's lawyer person instead.
Met with her.
". . . not a bad guy, just crazy."
And hoped she could help him.
Norman wouldn't make it in prison.
He would be a target, a small, weak, effeminate target.
He would be killed or even worse.
He needed to be . . .
". . . in a mental facility."
And he hoped Remo's calculating, shrewd lawyer person could get Norman into one.
Instead of dead in jail.
"Dylan?"
Despite all his lingering water glass to the temple migraine, his wife's voice, the one normal thing left in his life, soothed his nerves more than any migraine medicine he could take.
"Yeah, Emma. Where are you?"
She was out on a walk in the cold with Katie.
And Dylan just wished he could be there instead of his current location.
Oh god, I love you, Emma.
"I miss you guys."
You just don't even know.
He told her where he was, about Norman confessing to murder.
And he told her . . .
"I just think he's really sick."
. . . about his worries about his brother.
About getting a lawyer.
Her voice was calming and supportive and . . .
"Dylan, I'm worried about you."
. . . concerned.
Concerned because she loved him.
She loves me. She still loves me.
And that helped a little.
He could feel the pain riding up in his chest, wanting him to feel the relief that Emma still cared, that he wasn't alone in the world yet.
That he was still a part of something good when this was over.
But . . .
"Don't be. I'm fine."
. . . he couldn't let it."
If he started crying over the phone, it would scare her.
No telling what she would do.
So he . . .
"Look, I gotta go."
. . . got off the phone quick before he could start feeling again . . .
"Give Katie a kiss for me, okay?"
. . . and scare the woman he loved.
"Alright, love you."
So Emma's mother was dead and Dylan was completely sure Norman had killed her.
Which meant he was going to have to tell his wife.
Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let her hear it from anybody else.
Which also meant there was a better than good chance she was going to freak right out.
And probably take herself and Katie.
And leave him.
And there was no way in hell he would be able to avoid it.
Shit.
A part of him hated Norman.
Hated Audrey.
Hated the dental records.
And hated of course hated the damn sheriff.
Who didn't really care about him or his brother or even the dead bodies in the lake.
But was, especially at the moment, just trying to do her job.
Really, really well.
Well, you can go to hell for all I care, Sheriff.
And then he went back inside his tiny little, Emma and Katie-less room.
And shut the door in her face.
He had trouble falling asleep.
The bed was too still.
One of the many things he adored about Emma was her sleeping idiosyncrasies.
Not only did she like to sleep with one hand tucked under her head in the most adorable way, she also went to sleep perfectly.
Emma rubbed her feet together while going to sleep.
One sole of one foot rubbing the top of the other.
A small movement that comforted him for some reason.
Em, I miss you.
That night he dreamed about Emma and Katie.
He dreamed they were walking in a snow covered field.
One of those you see in pictures.
Walking, just walking, not feeling the cold.
Each of them bundled up and warm.
Katie in his arms, her little baby skin so soft, blue eyes so wide and bright.
Emma was telling a story and laughing and it was the funniest, best, story he had ever heard.
Their breath billowing out into the cloudless blue winter sky, intermingling together because everything about them was together.
Dylan Massett had never felt so good, so free.
So happy.
And suddenly Emma turned.
Katie was no longer in his arms, she was in Emma's.
And Emma was no longer laughing, she was crying.
"Why did you do it, Dylan? Why did you let him kill my mother? This is all your fault and I will never forgive you for it!"
Then she turned and started walking away with Katie in her arms.
Not looking good back, even when he shouted her name.
"Emma, I'm sorry! Emma, wait! Emma, wait! Emma, please come back!"
Because he couldn't run to her side.
He couldn't run at all.
Something was pulling him back, skidding his heels along the snow covered ground.
Something was pulling him back as Emma and Katie were walking forward.
And he didn't want to . . .
"Wait, please, I'm sorry!"
. . . be separated from them.
Be without them.
The further they walked from him and he was pulled back from them, the colder he got.
Just a little at first.
But more and more until he was shiveringly empty.
Left alone in the freezing cold.
Dark fast gathering around him.
Alone.
And lost.
And so afriad.
"Emma!"
Dylan Massett awoke with a start in his rented motel bed, bathed in sweat, heart racing so fast he thought for a second it might burst.
He was not in Seattle with his precious family.
Hearing Katie cry or cuddling up with Emm or thinking about the new West Ambry account.
He was alone and lost in White Pine Bay, Oregon.
And he was scared.
Shaking, he flung back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing his head in his hands.
I want to go home.
I want all of this to go away and I want to go home.
But he couldn't.
He had responsibilities.
He had his brother to look after.
And he had to pee.
So he got up.
Took off his sweatsoaked clothes.
Emptied his bladder.
And took a shower.
He probably used up all the hot water in the entire motel, pressing his head to his arm against the aging wall of the shower.
Letting the water best down on his head.
Run down his neck.
Over the star tattoo, his first . . .
Guide me. Help me make good decisions. Help me be better.
. . . shoddily thoughtout ink.
Way back when he had first decided to be . . .
Let me be okay.
. . . better than he had started out.
Down his back, soaking into the tense, wound-up muscles bunched up under his skin.
Water running off into the tub, sluicing away the slick, sick sweat he had been sheened with when he had awoken from his nightmare.
What do I do? I don't know how to do this! How do I do this?
He eventually roused himself from his stupor.
Washed with soap . . .
This doesn't smell or feel like the one at home.
This sucks.
. . . rinsed.
Washed his hair.
Rinsed.
And turned off the water.
He felt a little better, not much.
He still had miles to go.
Hey, Will, rubbing off on me, huh?
And so he got to it.
As best he could.
Only a little of this chapter is about Dylan in the shower, okay? ;)