"Milkman? Who has a milkman anymore? Are we in the bloody thirties?" Dean asked, laughing. He grinned at the shaking fist. "Not that she didn't try, but I wouldn't do that to you, mate. Besides, you know she's not my type. Bit too hairy," he teased blithely. "But if it were, bet my sprog would be loads prettier than yours."
Dean wasn't the type who played about. He usually had one girl he was with, and didn't really flirt or look about too much, outside of that. He was, one could claim, a bit more domesticated than Seamus. That didn't mean he put any real thought, other than teasing, into a future with kids or a wife or anything else, yet, other than the vague notion that he'd like kids, some day. Though not more than two - he loved his siblings. He didn't want a family as big as his though. His head would explode, and whatever crap job he ended up with would never pay for them.
Dean grunted at the kick, foot colliding with Seamus' shin in turn - though not that hard - and rolled his eyes at the burp. "Pig," he accused fondly. He laughed at the idea. "I'll just crawl into your bed, then. Leave you to worry about getting the bed down before McGonagall sees."