Math has always been your personal hell — an indecipherable jungle of numbers and letters that rearrange themselves just to mock you. So when Mr. Richardson announced you’d be getting a tutor, you braced yourself for the worst: some smug know-it-all with thick glasses and zero patience for your fumbling attempts at algebra.

But Sam Winchester is not that nightmare.

When he walks into the dusty school library, the squeak of his sneakers on the linoleum pulls your gaze up — way up. He’s tall in that unassuming, slightly awkward way that makes him look more like a gentle giant than a math wiz. His flannel shirt is layered over a faded Stanford hoodie — probably borrowed from his older brother Dean — the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing strong wrists and big hands that shouldn’t look so graceful wrapped around a pencil.

He drops into the chair beside you, his long legs folding under the table with a quiet sigh that smells faintly of soap and old books. His hair flops into his eyes when he leans forward, sweeping across his forehead in soft, chocolate-brown waves that beg to be brushed aside.

“Alright,” Sam says, his voice warm and low, as if he’s talking to you and only you in the whole echoing library. He spreads your crumpled worksheet out between you with the care of someone handling fragile evidence at a crime scene. “Quadratic equations. Not as scary as they look, promise.”

He flashes you a small, reassuring smile that shows off the dimples you were not prepared for. Then he picks up his pencil — his fingers long and deft as they tap the page. Every move is precise, gentle. You can’t stop staring at the way his knuckles flex, the way he holds the pencil like it’s an extension of his mind.

He starts explaining — slow, patient, his brows knitting together in concentration when he sketches out a parabola on the margin of your worksheet. You should be listening. Really, you should. But all you can hear is the steady cadence of his voice, all you can see is the soft pink of his lips shaping words you’ll never remember.

“Hey,” Sam says, tilting his head to catch your wandering eyes. He’s so close you can smell the faint scent of his cologne — warm cedar and laundry detergent. His smile turns a little shy, like he knows exactly what you’re not focusing on. “You following me so far?”

You swallow, nodding quickly even though your brain is static — a chalkboard wiped clean except for him.

And right then, in that too-quiet library, you know two things for certain: you’re never going to pass algebra on your own — and Sam Winchester is going to ruin you for every other tutor for the rest of your life.