Word: Close
Word Count: 200
"Hey Dean, how do you kiss a girl?"
Sam's middle school vanishes over the horizon as Dean nails the gas down. Introverted, psychoanalytical, innocent, Sam. Kissing a girl. Dean's surprised his hands don't slide off the wheel. Shit, middle school romance? He knows quickies in the closet, whoopees under the bleachers. Not this.
"Fuck girls," Dean nearly answers, but instead grips the wheel tighter as he realizes the implications. No. No.
Dad would kill him.
"Get close to them. Girls like that type of shit."
Sam purses his lips. "Physically?"
"Uh—" shit shit shit "—emotionally. Chocolate."
"I'm not stupid, you know. Some girls hate chocolate."
Stop being smart. Stop.
"Tell them that they're pretty?" and just stop asking because God knows that I don't know how to do this right.
It merits Sam's half-closed eye and bit lip and suspicious look, but, after a moment of consideration, Sam nods in acceptance and turns back to the window. "I'll try that then. Dad wouldn't even answer me when I asked—too busy with work—so thanks. Really, you're the best."
The blood rushes back into Dean's face and the tension bleeds from his shoulders.
"I know kid. I know."