Norman: "Don't laugh at me!"
Dylan: "That was ... the opposite. I'm so sorry I left you with her, all alone."
Norman: "You have no idea, Dylan."
Dylan: "That she's insane? Oh no, I get it..."
Norman unloads, with hooting owls nesting nearby, in a sudden torrent that washes across Dylan's face: He worries for Norman, he worries for Norma, he wonders how much is true and how much is Norman's particular truth. He has the distinct privilege of knowing how bad things can get, outside their little world: It makes more sense to him than you'd think. And somewhere in there, Norman stops being something she took away from him and starts being something he abandoned.
"I'm so scared, Dylan. Every minute I've lived here, every second, just total fear. And that sheriff's totally suspicious of her, and it's my fault, and Summers was wearing this like police belt when he attacked Mom, and I hid it under my bed -- no, I don't know why -- and Shelby found it and he won't give it back, and now he's got mom doing stuff, so that's why I broke in, but I found -- I thought I found -- this Asian girl, locked in the basement. And I couldn't get her out of there, I told her I'd come back and get her..."
And when Dylan says he'll help Norman, without asking a single question, he means something very different than what Norman hears. He doesn't ask for trust, but he gets it ("Thank you," Norman says formally): The thing is that this story gets worse the less true it is. It would be less awful, less depressing and terrifying, if it all really happened. If the sex slave is real, she can be freed. She can be saved. But if she isn't, then Norman has no such hope.
Dylan's relieved. About Norman finally giving him something, of course, and about having an even better way of saving him than groceries he paid for as a drug merc, but most of all by the fact that Bradley chooses this moment to text Norman ("Hey."). Because there aren't any other words to say, at this point. Norman's said them all.
Dylan: "Is that a girl? Is she pretty? Do you like her? You have to text her, right now, and say you're coming over."
Dylan: "If she says no, no big. But nobody texts you at ten PM unless it's situation-dependent. This is a booty call. You must go forth."
Norman: "...Send. Oh, shit."
Dylan waits. Drinking it in, like a fifth of whiskey, because who knows when he'll get this chance again. Everybody runs.