"See, now this one I KNOW isn't yours, since she's been kicking you out of bed for a year now," Dean answered, laughing. Since it wasn't him in danger of having some bird show up claiming he was the daddy (he'd only gotten far enough for that to be a possibility fairly recently, and they'd been careful - and barely seen each other since, actually, it was a bit awkward), Dean just found the idea hilarious, really. "I tried to tell you, but you would have none of it. Serves you right." Seamus would, Dean was sure, eventually end up a dad with tiny little blond Finnigans running about. He'd be good at it, probably. Eventually. "Probably the bloke across the street's," he teased.
"What are you going to do to my bed? Aren't we too old for shortsheeting?" Dean asked. Probably not, but it was worth a try. He didn't deny the notion that he was a softie. He was, and they both knew it. He'd give people the shirt off his back if they needed it more. Well. Most people. He was a softie, he wasn't spineless.
He grinned, giving Seamus a chance to catch up, almost. But Dean was still finishing the last of the pint first, hiding an almost-belch behind his hand - out of habit than because he thought Seamus would care. He lived with his mum, she wasn't keen on bodily noises if they weren't from babies too young to be out of training pants. "One down, Finnigan. What do I win?"