With Norma's intense, unending, hysterical sobs rummaging around the house, bouncing through the air shafts and through the walls, Norman sits on his bed tearing in half. She wraps around the world. Finally, he just sets out walking. Not crazy-smile walking, just escaping. Running away.
Down at the units, as far as you can get from the residence without leaving home: Dylan, with his bourbon and his smokes. He's happy to see Norman, but he can't see it.
Norman: "Uh, hey."
Norman wanders away again, not wanting to intrude -- and really not wanting to deal with Dylan -- and the hurt translates itself into irritation before Dylan even notices he's hurt.
Dylan: "Why do you always run away from me?"
I don't like it when people, in real life or on TV, try to back time up to before they fucked up. The Willow Rosenberg "let's just pretend" trick is my least favorite trick, because you need to control yourself and show dignity, and that means you just did neither of those things twice in a row. But what Dylan is trying to teach us -- and what we had no way of knowing, anymore than Norman does -- is that he's not doing that. Norma acts like buying groceries is this cheap move, the thing that comes before the disappointment, and maybe it is... Or maybe trust me.
And then Norman, between being frightened and offended by Dylan's masculinity outright and being frightened of the Dylan story he and Norma have concocted -- with Dylan playing right along -- he too has no actual reason to trust the guy. Same smell, same rough hands; same snake waiting to strike, coiled in the same world, calling Mother a whore.
But what we get to see is actual Dylan, who loves to hunt pheasant and worries about crying guys in strip clubs and just wants a motorcycle and a mother and a brother. And they're probably both true, both versions of the same true thing, but Dylan's right to be hurt, because he hasn't done a damned thing wrong since the second he showed up. And further, he deserves to be loved: Because we all do, and because even if it's just desperation that he keeps giving these lunatics chances to hurt him, he's still doing it. He doesn't hold a grudge, which is laudable even when you're not talking about a woman who is a walking knot of grudges.
Without words, because there are no words, Dylan just offers what he's got: The fifth of whiskey in his hand. It's a dare, for Norman; for Dylan it's a gift. He takes a manful swig and chokes on it, so sweetly, and Dylan chuckles. What it would be, to be a big brother.