who asked for Dean/Booth, eggnog, handcuffs and dirt.
“Come on, man. It’s Christmas Eve.”
The complaint only increased the pressure of Booth’s hands around Dean’s wrists. Warm breath behind his ear, harsh voice through clenched teeth.
“Want me to stop for eggnog?”
With a click, metal bands closed around Dean’s wrists. He watched the trees. Looked for some sign of Sam. Slightly relieved when he couldn’t see anything.
“Gonna tell me what you were doing in that graveyard? Besides spoiling my night?”
“Lookin’ for lost relatives?”
“Don’t bullshit me.” That dark whisper again. Hot rush of air that made the tiny hairs on Dean’s neck rise. And the heat that poured through cotton and synthetic. “I know who you are.”
With a groan, his body curving to fit against Booth’s even as he fought his voice to stay neutral.
“You don’t know shit.”
Handcuffed, pressed against the Impala. Booth’s knees pressed his thighs wider and he felt Booth’s hand cup his groin between metal and denim. Tight squeeze that made Dean gasp.
“I will interrogate you.”
“You could fuck off.” Dean growled, but his hips betrayed him. Booth turned him in one motion, Dean’s head pulled back, dry lips under his jaw.
“Yeah. Or I could fuck you.”
Hope that works, babe.