This is my first SPN RPF fic. I've been on a major J2 kick and my classes are nailing me in the face hard, but for some reason, my brain is all, "WOULD YOU LIKE SOME EXCELLENT PLOT BUNNIES? I KNOW I WOULD" and I barely have time to explain to my brain that, "no, I don't have time for this crap, I have an Organic Chemistry test tomorrow I have to study for, and two portraits and a finished lab report due, none of which I've started." Yeah. So. My brain doesn't listen and starts doing this shit anyway.

I have proofread nothing. You have been warned.

Jared'd gotten spoiled and he knew it. Lazing around at home with nobody to press their beady little eyes in on him, he'd been allowed to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He had, in-fact, gone around the house wearing nothing at all and feeling magnificent about it. Granted, the unfortunately-placed grease burns from when he attempted to cook while dressed as such were a lesson learned, but there was still undeniable freedom in it.

Then September'd begun and he'd been back on campus for two whole weeks. He was in… eurgh… public. Now, the actual people who comprised the public, Jared had no problem with. He was a social creature by nature. People freaking loved him and he freaking loved people. He was just going to miss the freedom, not that he was going to go around with his junk hanging out in the name of personal freedom. There were lines.

One of those lines stated that he had to keep his wings hidden or the US government (or worse) would probably tie him up in their basement (did the US government actually have a basement?) and do creepy experiments on him. All Jared could say to that was, "Boo." This close to DC, they'd be on him like bran on rice. Hell, this was a university with a strong medical background. If the government didn't get to him, the medical grad students would. Now that's a scary thought. His wings shifted uncomfortably under their dressings.

Yeah, those were what chafed the most. He didn't mind wearing clothing. He did mind wearing the awfully-textured monstrosity that was the perception filter keeping anyone from noticing his wings, even if they were to bump into them – and people did. Not so much as an "I'm sorry" from them either, because their brains never processed having touched something. That would be why Jared didn't like bumming it, running around campus with eighteen million other pissy, rushed, late, extremely caffeinated young adults slamming into his wings at full throttle, forcing him to quickly right himself despite being half spun around, because while his wings may have been covered, the rest of him wasn't. Back-to-school meant back-to-horrendous-wing-bruising for Jared. He tried to leave for classes early to avoid the rush in the main plaza, but there was always frickin' somebody who felt the need to make an ass of themselves. Extremely sarcastic slow-clapping to them.

Still, there were some benefits to going back to classes. Jared hooked around the pathway back behind another building, dodging tree limbs that didn't hang low enough to bother the rest of the (normally-sized) population but were just low enough to smack Jared in his super-tall face. He dodged the biker and at least five people just sitting around smoking in front of the smaller building (he had to hold his breath for that bit to avoid the smell, because getting cancer for being polite was just not on Jared's bucket list) and ducked in one of three enormous doorways. He ended up having to hold the damn thing for three girls who were just leaving, never mind that the motion crushed his wings up against the door brutally. Only one said "thank you", and bless her heart, she made eye contact when she said it. At least someone around here was raised right.

Jared hurried down the hall to his right before any other road blocks – er, students – showed up. His class was the second-to-last one on the right, and he swung himself in through the doorway. Only one other student was there already. Score. Jared found himself a seat in the back corner. No-one to push at his wings, trying to get to the seats on the other side of him. No-one behind him to wonder why they couldn't read the whiteboard if there was nothing in the way. After all, the perception filter just made it so that people couldn't process seeing his wings – it didn't mean that people could actually see through them. It may be fabric that negated something's existence, but it wasn't a freaking Invisibility Cloak. He totally wasn't sitting in the back corner because that was also where the exceedingly hot TA sat. Nope. Not even a little.

Jared was majoring in History, with a minor in Anthropology, and this particular class was more in line with the latter. Mostly on Middle-Eastern culture and all. The professor was a tiny adorable old Persian man with an accent that made every word sound like a soft cashmere sweater wrapping around you to keep the cold out. But the TA… the TA was just ridiculous. Jensen Ackles. He probably didn't expect anyone to actually remember his name when he gave it during the first class (who remembers the TA's full name, after all?) but Jared did. Jared had to physically restrain himself from doodling it all over his notebooks at the time. Jensen was shockingly beautiful. Like, almost offensively so. Wide green eyes, often squinted because it was the morning and Jensen was never quite awake until his third coffee of the day, that peeked out sharply over cheeks softly dusted with freckles, and a mouth. Oh, that mouth. Sonnets could be dedicated to its plushness. Men should not have lips like that. There had to be laws about that somewhere. But despite his beauty, there were little details that made him undeniably masculine – the very squared jaw, a slight cleft chin, stubble, the crew cut of his hair (what colour was that, anyway? Brunet? Dark blond? Or was that a slightly reddish tint? Maybe if you stuffed all three colours in a blender), even the absolutely perfect bow-legged-ness that Jensen had going on. Not that Jared had ever stared at Jensen's gait, trying to memorise how the older man moved. Or, y'know, that perfect ass.

Jared did not have enough time to delve into (all dirty jokes aside) all of the things he loved about Jensen's ass. If he had an eternity, it would not be a tenth of the time required.

Okay, so Jared was crushing hard over his (probably straight, because wasn't that always the way) TA.

It was absolutely not why he was minoring in Anthropology. Jensen was an added bonus.

Jared was something called a seraph. Yeah. Short for seraphim, although in recent centuries, the full term was used only when referring to the plural noun. Not that anyone used the term out loud much anymore. Despite the naming, or rather because of it, Jared knew damn well that he wasn't an angel, nor did he have angel blood in him.

Jared was convinced he was an alien.

His mum (and of course it had to be her, because Dad was human through and through and only found out about Mum's wings just after he'd proposed and she'd said yes) had told him stories that her father had told her, and that his father had told him, and his mother told him. Most of the history had been obscured, because things were often warped when spread solely by word of mouth from parent to child. What his mother had heavily implied, though, was that their people had come from some mysterious far-off place in an amazing ship that could apparently fly through the sky and crash-landed a bit more than 4,000 years ago. Yeah. And they had a ship that could fly. And Jared's mum thought he was nuts for thinking they were aliens. Their technology had to come from somewhere, he had argued. Perception filters like the ones they wore every day didn't just – if she'd pardon the pun – drop out of the sky. Or maybe they did. Which was, after all, the whole stinking point. But then she'd asked him what he wanted for dinner or if he'd be content with dog food, and he'd gotten the point real fast.

That didn't change things, though. Jared's people had a secret history even they didn't know about, and Jared's sole purpose in life was finding it. Hence, History and Anthropology. What better fields of study for rediscovering an almost-dead culture? The history of an entire race! The secret part of the population that was 0.002% otherworldly? Now that was some cool shit. And whenever people asked him what he wanted to do with his degree, he always had to give some bull useless answer like, "I want to teach." Not that he didn't. He just wanted to teach his own people instead of the ignorant kids of the public school system – and yes, being a public school child himself, he knew exactly how ignorant they could be and was entitled to the less-than-politically-correct statement.

The professor had arrived, along with maybe 90% of the class, and Jared let the ancient man's voice wash over him. Glancing over to his left, he couldn't help the small frown on his face. Jensen wasn't here today. What a shame. If he couldn't have eye candy, he may as well pull out the hardcore stuff. He fished a fistful of DumDums out of his enormous coat pocket (and yeah – there were zippers under each wing that were also covered in Velcro-secured perception filters) and unwrapped one and started sucking on it. The mystery flavour was always fruit punch. When were they going to learn that Jared Padalecki, seraph and probable alien, was never surprised?

Professor Mehrandish had asked Jensen to fish out an article on the British occupation of Iran back in WWI. Jesus, he wished the Professor had been more specific about that. There were a million and three of them, including some novels. The campus library was pretty big, and being this close to DC and various foreign embassies, the selection was a whole lot more culturally diverse than your regular university library. Yes, technically that was a dream come true for an anthropologist, but when you were trying to find your needle in a haystack… Yeah. Jensen was ready to punch babies. And he'd only had one coffee that morning, so no-one was allowed to judge him for seriously considering seeking out a sacrificial baby to punch.

Glancing at his watch, Jensen cursed silently in multiple languages. The morning class was already over, and they were going to start on individual consulting about research papers today. Jensen ran his fingers through his hair. If he got bitched at because of this (not by Professor Mehrandish of course – the wizened old Persian man was basically a made of kittens), heads were going to roll.

He had narrowed down some likely suspects in academic-article-land. Whichever ones weren't the one the professor was looking for, Jensen could bring right back. He had to hurry before the next class was over – the professor had no afternoon classes and generally went home or to his office over in the language buildings and it was a toss-up which one it might be today.

Sheesh, but the library was crowded. It was only the beginning of the third week, for Christ's sake. Were the professors really so ruthless in handing out assignments? Couldn't they keep the speed bumps – er, sorry, students – out of Jensen's hair for five frickin' minutes?

Jensen, in his most notably not caffeine-fuelled rush, did not see the backpack on the floor. Being that he did not see it as he ducked around another student coming the opposite direction in the much-too-narrow walkspace between the two tables, he did what anyone would do. He tripped like a pro. Papers. Flying. Everywhere. He'd been working on this crap for the last two hours. He did what he could trying to grab at them as they flew.

His fingers did not catch on paper.

Was that… fabric ripping?

But… but he could swear that nothing had been there but open air.

He pried himself up off the ground, glaring at the floor like it was all its fault (and, if you thought about it from a physicist's point of view, it totally was), and twisted his neck around to look for whatever his fingers had caught on.

His jaw slackened. His eyes widened. His papers were utterly forgotten.

Were those… feathers?

On Jared Padalecki, currently looking for all the world like a terrified, cornered rabbit?

Jensen thought he was well-justified in a bit of panicking of his own.