Corruption ୨ৎ
Summary: After a hunt goes wrong because of your powers, Dean gets injured, and you’re the one cleaning him up. A few curious questions lead to something else. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, angel!user, inexperienced!user, virgin!user, smut, thigh-grinding, wing play, corruption kink, innocence loss, sexual tension, suggestive comments, religious themes, nothing too kinky, pet names (baby, angel), oblivious!user, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 3.5k | : obviouslyyy i had to make some tweaks to the canon angels (lolol) but i hope you guys enjoy <3 this is for the anon who asked me sooo long ago to make a wing play fic :’) trust me on it!!!
The weight from the hunt is heavy on your shoulders, and so are the wings that are aching to come out of your back.
It wasn’t a good hunt, not at all; you, Dean’s guardian angel, allowed him to get hurt while in your hands, and now he’s sitting at a sink in the motel room, and you’re trying your best to stop the bleeding seeping from his lower stomach.
“Why don’t you work your angel juju or somethin’?” Dean asks, his eyes gazing at yours, but yours are elsewhere; his bare stomach, and the blood that’s pooling by his waistband. “Isn’t that… your whole existence?”
“I tried to, Dean,” you tell him, peeking up at him. “Did not work, I don’t know why,” you mumble, shaking your head.
“Sky daddy pissed off with you?” He teases, trying to ease the moment, but he sucks in a deep breath, groaning softly when your finger nudges the wound.
“I don’t know,” you say and shake your head, shifting a bit closer to Dean. “Seems like… something is wrong with my powers right now,” you explain, biting your tongue as you examine the wound.
“So, you’re just playin’ doctor right now? No angel magic?” He asks, grinning at you.
You shake your head. “No angel magic.”
The bathroom is quiet as you work, your nimble fingers swiftly working to clean up the mess of blood—Dean got hurt pretty badly, a nasty slash from the claws of a monster, and now you were the one looking after him. You were his guardian angel after all.
Dean watches you closely, his eyes focused on your hands instead; soft, covered in his blood, but small compared to his body. He swallows hard and looks at your face instead, but you’re occupied with something else, like saving his life.
He was fascinated with you—your grace, your elegance, your purpose, your innocence. You were really an angel incarnate, the perfect mix of everything he shouldn’t want to corrupt, and yet, he wanted to, more than he’d like to admit. It was hard not to, not when you looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, all while telling him your only purpose was to protect him.
“What about the wings?” Dean asks, making small talk as you work on fixing him up, grabbing damp cloths and holding the wound. “They still workin’, or did they snatch those from you too?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, ignoring the question from Dean, too focused on stopping the flow of blood right now. He’s being an idiot; he’s always being an idiot; sly comments and filthy remarks, and you barely knew what they meant, not until Sam would roll his eyes and apologize on behalf of his gross older brother. You’d just nod.
“Angel,” Dean murmurs, the stupid nickname that’s too accurate making you look up. “You listenin’ to me?”
“No, I’m working,” you say and shake your head, sticking your tongue out as you reach for a bandaid. “What’s wrong, Dean? Are you okay?” You then ask, looking up at him, fingers peeling open the package.
“Yeah—yeah, you don’t have to say my name at the end of every sentence,” he laughs, but it fades into a groan when you touch a tender part of his stomach.
“Why?” You ask softly, carefully slapping the bandage over the cleaned wound. “That’s your name.”
“Do I call you by your name all of the time?” He asks, watching you take a small step back from him.
You shake your head. “No, you call me other things, though… should I call you other things?”
“No… no, I’m just sayin’ you don’t have to act so formal all of the time. I get the angel gimmick, and how your purpose is to serve. You don’t have to talk to me like you’re in HR, though,” Dean teases, his hand carefully tugging down his t-shirt.
“Okay,” you nod a little, and start to walk off, but his hand reaches out, and he grabs your wrist.
“Still didn’t answer my question,” he lightly presses, tilting his head to the side. “The wings? How they workin’?”
You sigh quietly and take a small step back, and Dean lets you, grinning when he knows you’re about to show them off, and you do.
They’re smaller than the others; white and soft, behind your back, a physical manifestation opposed to the shadows they usually cast, and Dean’s lips part at the sight of them. He almost stands up from the sink, but you shake your head.
“Guess daddy isn’t that mad,” he jokes, his eyes averting their gaze, focusing on the odd wings behind you. “Does it… feel weird?”
“No,” you shake your head. “Doesn’t feel like anything.”
“Can I feel ‘em?” Dean then asks, his eyes curious, and he tilts his head to the side, a boyish expression crooked into his features. You nod.
A few steps closer have you near Dean again, and he’s still sitting on the sink, perched up on it like a kid. He wets his lips and reaches out, two rough fingers pinching at one of the white feathers, and you shift on your feet.
“You feel that?” He asks through a laugh, eyebrows raised.
“Mhm,” you nod, swallowing hard. “Tickles… kind of,” you tell him, nodding again.
“Ah,” he nods in understanding, taking his hand back and resting it against his thigh. “I thought they’d be sensitive, somethin’ like that,” he adds on.
“They are,” you tell him, your eyes staying on his. “It’s like having open nerves on my back; it’s why they aren’t supposed to be seen by you, or touched.”
“Then why can I touch and see ’em?” Dean quips, grinning, his canines pressing to his soft lips.
You shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You’re an angel, but somehow… know nothin’. Does daddy keep a lot of secrets from you?” He asks, and your wings flutter, and he laughs.
“Yes,” you reply, nodding. “I have faith, though.”
Dean licks his lips again and looks away, rubbing his thighs, his palms pressing into the denim. You’re well aware of his wariness, his hesitance in believing in a higher power, your father, and your existence only makes it harder to believe; this beautiful girl before him, all soft and elegant, mindlessly following orders to somebody you haven’t seen, or spoken to, and not even knowing how your body functions, or why your wings are visible to a human right now.
“What do they look like?” Dean then asks, and your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion.
“Can you not see them, Dean?” You ask, your voice soft yet concerned, worrying about his vision. He snorts.
“No, idiot… like, what they look like comin’ out of your back, I’m curious,” he replies, blinking slowly.
There’s little to no hesitation; your hands reach down, and you’re lifting your shirt, carefully peeling it off of your head, and his eyes widen at the sight of you; you stand there in just a bra now, and you turn around.
“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes out in surprise, standing on his feet and off the sink. “Have… have you seen how fuckin’ badass this looks?” He asks in disbelief, his eyes staring at the centre of your back, just above the clasp of your bra.
Dean is absolutely enthralled by how it looks; the two wings, emerging from your skin, right by your shoulder blades, and sweeping out to either side of you. He’s so fascinated, he reaches forward, a fingertip grazing the place where they bulge out of your back.
“Ah—“ you breathe out, your back twitching, and the wings flutter in response. “I told you… they’re sensitive, really sensitive.”
Dean takes his hand away and looks at you. “My bad…”
“It’s okay,” you mumble and shake your head. “Not used to people touching them; nobody has.”
“So I’m your first,” he replies, a smirk working into his lips, but the innuendo goes unnoticed ok your end.
“Yes, you’re my first,” you say casually, glancing over your shoulder and at him.
“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” Dean laughs, and lifts his hand again, instead using his knuckles to graze where they protrude gently.
“Dean,” you whisper when he touches you again, and he looks down, noticing the slight arch in your back, and the light flutter again.
“How sensitive are these things?” He asks, lightly bringing his knuckles to the wings, just a few inches from your back.
They’re way too sensitive, apparently, and there’s an odd sensation going through your body right now, your innocent mind unable to process any of it; the sensitivity from the wings, clashing with the vessel’s body, and the arousal that stems from sensual touch. You swallow hard and shift again.
“I guess… very sensitive,” you reply, feeling a light warmth flood your cheeks, and you lift your hand, looking into the palm. You’re feeling human emotions.
“You okay?” Dean checks in, noticing the puzzled expression knitting into your brows.
“Yes,” you reply and nod. “I feel good.”
Dean raises his eyebrows at your response and bites his lip. He’s trying not to take it the wrong way; he returns to poking and prodding at the wings, mostly the base, where the skin is tender and ripped out, slightly raw from the wings emerging from them. He steps a bit closer to you and rests a hand on your bare hip.
“The wings are pretty,” he says quietly and nods. “Makes you… look like a real angel,” he adds on, smiling.
“I am an angel,” you reply, your eyes peeking down; you can see the tips of his fingers dipping around your hip, lightly pressing against the front of your body.
“Yeah… I get that,” he nods, and then begins to massage lightly, just two fingers gently rubbing. “How does this feel?”
The noise that leaves your lips gives it away: it feels pretty damn good; a soft moan twisted into a whine, and Dean squeezes your hip in response to the sound. He breathes out, and quickly realizes it isn’t just ticklish; it’s a bit more than that.
“Guessin’… that felt good,” Dean jokes, trying to ease the tension that’s arising.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you tell him, and his lips part at your words.
“Wrong with you?” He repeats back in disbelief, his hand now gently rubbing your hip. “Nothin’ is wrong with you… you’re… God’s divine creation, c’mon.”
“Not me,” you clarify, shifting on your feet. “My vessel.”
“What’s… wrong with your vessel?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “I think she’s pretty hot, nothin’ wrong with that.”
“I am very hot,” you agree and nod. “And.. I’m sweating a lot, and I feel weird; something is happening,” you explain, looking over your shoulder.
“You’re probably turned on,” Dean says plainly, grinning like an ashaole. “I was always gonna ask if you ever do… you’ve walked in on me a bunch of fuckin’ times, and walked out like it was nothin’.”
He realizes he’s been talking too much, and mostly being an insensitive prick—an angel is having a crisis in front of him, partially because of his touch, and all he can do is laugh and poke fun at her for it. He sighs and scratches his jawline.
“Okay,” he starts, rubbing your hip still. “You’re fine… It’s just warm in here,” he reassures, patting your hip, and he notices the wings flutter a bit more.
“I don’t know,” you whisper and shake your head. “I haven’t felt like this before, Dean, and… and I don’t know what to do,” you add on, your words bleeding into a soft whine.
“Hey… hey, you’re okay,” he reassures quietly, his hand on your hip carefully moving you, turning you around to face him. “What’s goin’ on?”
You breathe out. “Uhm… I’m really hot, and… and it feels all weird,” you tell him, and Dean nods.
He’s carefully guiding you back into the main part of the motel room and setting you onto one of the beds. It groans when you sit against it, and he’s sitting beside you too, his eyes focused on you.
Dean’s eyes glance down, noticing your thighs squeezing together, your hips moving, and he puts it all together, quicker than he’d like to; it’s arousal, the human feeling where you suddenly feel a little bit hotter than normal, and there’s a dull ache between your thighs, and he clenches his jaw.
His hand lifts, and it presses against your lower back, missing the wings that are still behind you, fluttering a bit more. His thumb rubs the bare back, grazing the nobs of your spine, and he keeps his eyes on the side of your face. He can feel the sweat glistening on your skin, and he knows you’re struggling.
“You’re fine,” he whispers to you, his other hand lifting your chin. “It’ll… go away,” he reassures, but his hand accidentally drifts a bit too high, and his thumb nudges it again, a part of your wing.
A soft whine leaves your mouth, and you lean into Dean, your face pressing against his shoulder, and he’s not sure if you’re succumbing to it or trying to escape—he chooses to keep going, lightly drawing circles where the celestial fragment extends from you, poking the tender skin. He’s in awe; you’re moaning.
“Dean,” you whimper into his shoulder, and he’s almost too shocked to pull his hand away. “Why… am I feeling like this?”
“You’re supposed to,” he says automatically, and swallows hard, gazing down at your hidden face. “It’s your vessel… it’s feelin’ what it’s supposed to feel.”
“What?” You ask softly, and Dean is still doing it, silently torturing you with his thumb, and your thighs shift, and your hips squirm.
“What’s happenin’ between your thighs?” Dean then asks, his eyes noticing the way they’re rubbing together in response to what his hand is doing. “Feels good, yeah?”
“Yeah… mhm,” you admit and nod quickly, leaning into him, and he’s gradually pulling you in, focusing on touching your back still, occasionally touching a stray feather.
“Good, angel… want you to feel good,” he mumbles, admitting an underlying desire he has for you.
He’s had to watch it all; you battling, fighting, crying, a smile only appearing on your face when he was okay, when Dean was fine, when Dean had won—your emotions depended on him, and for once, he was the one making you feel good, and it wasn’t because you put yourself on the line, and in return saved him. No, it’s because he’s doing it to you.
“It does… feel really good,” you breathe out, shifting closer to him and leaning into him. “Don’t know what it is, though…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses and shakes his head, urging you to come a bit closer, his hand leaving your wings and moving to your hip.
Dean carefully moves you towards him, and he pulls you onto his thigh, helping you sit onto it. He looks up at you, his eyes wide; an angel sitting atop him, wings casting soft shadows, all beauty and innocence wrapped up into a whiny thing, whose vessel is telling her to rock her hips against his thick thigh.
“Woah—hey… hey,” he whispers, one hand on your hip, and the other returning to rest against your back. “What’re you doin’?”
“I don’t know,” you whine softly and shake your head, having a bit of a dilemma. “Feels… really good, really good,” you whimper.
Dean bites back a groan of his own, and he drifts his hand up your back again, and he’s doing it; fingertips roving over the delicate feathers, and you’re moaning now, a hand reaching for his shoulder. You grip it, fingers curling into the fabric.
“How’re you feelin’?” He asks quietly, feeling you rock into his thigh, gentle grinds, back and forth. “You know what’s happenin’?”
“No,” you admit and shake your head, just knowing that the friction feels good, and that the hand on your hip feels good, and that a hand on your wing feels good—Dean Winchester feels good.
“You’re… gettin’ off,” Dean mumbles, looking away from you when he realizes his poor choice of words. It’s not every day he’s walking an angel through thigh grinding.
“I’m… on top of you,” you whisper, your eyebrows knitting in confusion, and he smiles again.
Dean scoffs. “Yeah… you’re right,” he replies, licking his lips. “That… ache? You feelin’ somethin’ between your thighs?”
“Mhm…” you mumble, still grinding back and forth.
“Doin’ this makes it feel better, right?” He questions, noticing the way you’re almost speeding up.
“A lot better,” you whisper, nodding. “Wanna… do this all day with you,” you tell him, unaware of what this even means—this isn’t something you do all day, not even close.
“Can’t do this all day with you,” he replies, laughing again. “We… we can do this now, though.”
“Okay, Dean,” you breathe out, holding both of his shoulders, hastily keeping your balance, still moving back and forth. It feels too good to stop right now.
Dean watches in awe now; lips parted, realizing he hadn’t been with a woman who had something remotely similar to this. Yeah, he’d pick up chicks from bars, and you’d watch, but the way you’re just getting off on his thigh, moving back and forth, he just watches, wanting nothing more than for you to finish.
“What’s goin’ on in that head?” He then asks, and brushes his knuckle against another feather, hearing a whine.
“Uhm—just… I feel so good,” you whisper and nod. “Like… better than when I’m… doing other things,” you admit, nodding again, your head tipping back.
“Like when you’re servin’?” He asks, his teeth gritting.
“Yeah… this feels better,” you confess.
Dean’s slightly taken aback by your words; you’d always praised yourself on the battles you went on, the fights you fought and won, how proud you felt for conquering whatever stood in the way—God’s orders, Dean’s victory.
But this, grinding against his thigh, listening to his deep voice while he touches your wings, and touches your body… that feels better. He knows he’s making a monster, a corrupted angel.
“Daddy isn’t gonna like that,” he mumbles and shakes his head, half-joking, but wanting to see your reaction.
“I know… mhm, don’t care,” you whimper and shake your head, noticing the way Dean is purposely driving his thumb into that tender part of the wing.
He’s running off of this odd desire to prove something, to prove that your own will and ability to do what you want should override any false command. His hand holds your hips, guiding you to go quicker, helping you along, listening to hushed whines and moans leaving your mouth now.
“Keep goin’,” Dean encourages now, realizing that this is a lot more than an angel discovering what feels good. “You’re doin’ good, angel…”
The way your hips move is fluid and slow, but intense and hungry, and he can tell it’s all-consuming, the pleasure you’re feeling. He’s watching your eyelashes flutter and bat, your mouth hanging open now, and he can’t help but want to make you finish—he’s trying his hardest to.
Dean notices the flash in your eyes, and he realizes that you’re feeling something different now; probably a knot in your stomach, a tightness that you’re suddenly holding in, and he encourages you to go even faster, patting your hip.
“C’mon,” he mumbles, and he’s almost smiling at the way your wings flutter. “Almost there, baby, you got it.”
The pet name makes you whine softly; your mouth hangs open as you helplessly grind back and forth, feeling the best you ever have since you ended up in this god-forsaken place, and Dean is pretty sure he feels the same way too.
“Dean—“ you groan out, shaking your head, your nose scrunching up. “I—“
“It’s okay—it’s fine, baby, just… just do what feels right,” he tells you, and he can see the reluctance on your face, the way you’re unsure of what to do.
And then you do it, what feels right; you finish.
The motel room is all high-pitched, curious whines and moans, a whimper following quickly afterwards as you practically fall into Dean’s arms, and the wings disappear, immediately going back to where they came from. His hand rests where they were once protruding from, and he’s almost confused.
Dean can feel the dampness on his thigh, seeping in through the denim, and he knows not to make a big deal out of it. He just holds you there, realizing the innocence he just took from you, how he’s slowly corrupting you and breaking you down. He feels a hint of guilt and rubs your back.
“You okay?” He asks again, turning his head slightly, hesitantly placing a kiss to the temple of your head. “Feelin’ better?”
“Uh-huh…” you breathe out and nod, panting softly.
Dean knows not to tell Sam about this one.
