Dean shifted his focus over to the Scouts; each and every one of them had done things worse than what Dean had just done. But they were shocked by the callousness of it all.
When they raided, when they scouted out new areas to attack, to plunder, to steal and enslave. They felt powerful; they felt the adrenaline, the endorphins, the cortisol rush through their blood in a way that the life before the snow had never given them.
But Dean when his face shifted towards them concealed by a winter camouflage balaclava and a ballistic visor with blacked-out lenses. They felt nothing but the cold chill of the blizzard storm whose ravages they had kept at bay through fire and blood.
They had adapted to the winter, but Dean was something else entirely. The chills they felt down their spines caused their internal composure to fracture. Especially as Dean lowered Daniel's rifle before kneeling in front of the bound men so that he was on their level.
