Dean and the boys moved through the snow as if they were some kind of winter spirits. They weren't sprinting, they were slow, but smooth. Their snowshoes allowed them to effortlessly walk across the snow's surface.
Where others would dredge, they floated, each step being covered up instantly by the storm behind their movements.
It was almost unfair the level of advantage they had. Whether it was the ability to see clearly in the darkness, and immediately pick up on thermal signatures of living figures nearby.
Or how well their camouflage allowed them to mask themselves in the background. The more Dean and the boys skulked through the base, the more disappointed Dean was in the level of threat they faced.
Zero discipline, irregular patrols, some of which abandoning their posts entirely to seek the warmth of a nearby fire.
And the conversation that they had clearly pointed to conflict with the chain of command. But Dean absolutely could not weaponize that at the moment.
