The first time Dean hears anything about it, he's got forty dollars in his pocket and a bottle of spaghetti sauce in his hand. "Malcolm is really looking forward to the trip; I'm sure Howard is too," a woman with a really breathy voice is saying. He knows those names; they're the ones Sammy keeps repeating in all of his stories about the wonders of sixth grade. Dean can't hear those stories without feeling pretty bad for any kid who has to go through life named Malcolm, and feeling even worse for Howard. He peeks around the corner and sees two women standing in the dairy aisle. Malcolm's mom has a spectacular rack. "Not to mention how nice it'll be to have the house to ourselves for a week," she giggles.
He sneaks down the bread aisle and snags a loaf of potato - Sammy's latest favorite - as he goes. His total comes to thirty-seven dollars even and he grins at the cashier.
He puts the groceries away and sorts through the mail. There's a letter from Sammy's school; he reads it quickly and knocks on Dad's door. Dad's still a little pale from the flu he's had for almost three weeks now, but at least he's not looking nauseated anymore. He hands the letter over, watches Dad read it tiredly. He's got all of his arguments lined up, about how the trip is a school requirement, about how he can clip coupons and keep saving money at the grocery store so they can afford the trip, about how much Sammy can learn from a week in the woods. All he says, though, is, "Sammy deserves to go."
Dad just looks at him. Finally he says, "Salaman Lake?" He swipes a hand across his forehead, frowning slightly. Dean's about to remind him that the two of them swept the area with the EMF two months ago, but Dad looks up again. "Yeah. Okay. As long as you go too, keep an eye on him." He smiles when Dean doesn't argue. "You'll have to get my old sleeping bag out for him," Dad says, then grins up at him and socks him in the shoulder, not yet up to full strength. "You'll be okay sleeping in the Impala, right?"