"Winchester, focus." You tapped your pencil against your notebook, watching as Dean lazily flipped through the pages of his textbook in the gym, where you’d ended up after the library closed. Dean groaned, letting his head drop onto the table. "I am focusing. Just not on this boring equation." You rolled your eyes. "That’s the problem. You need—" He suddenly sat up, grinning. "I need a break. And you need a lesson." "A lesson in what? Avoiding responsibilities?" "In free throws." Dean grabbed a basketball from the rack nearby, spinning it between his fingers. "I can’t be the only one getting smarter here. It’s only fair." You scoffed. "Dean, I suck at basketball." "Yeah, I know. Which is why you should let me teach you." He tossed you the ball. Out of instinct, you caught it. "Come on, tutor. Show me what you got." With a dramatic sigh, you walked up to the line and shot. The ball bounced off the backboard. Dean pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. "Alright, alright. Try again." You took another shot. Airball. Dean laughed this time. "Wow. Okay, that was—" "Don’t say it." You shot him a glare, as he was already walking toward you. He stopped just behind you, hands on his hips. "Alright. Can I…?" He gestured toward you, waiting for permission. You hesitated. "...Yeah," Dean nodded, stepping closer. His hands came to rest over yours, adjusting your grip on the ball. His touch was warm, steady, his fingers brushing against yours as he guided them into place. "Here. Your elbows are too stiff. Loosen up." His hands moved to your waist next, gently repositioning your hips. You swallowed hard, your heart doing this really annoying thing where it started racing. "Better. Now bend your knees a little… yeah, just like that." You could barely focus on his instructions. All you could think about was how close he was. "Alright," he said, finally stepping back. "Now shoot."