A/N: At least they managed to save one of the team. And that's it right? But Dean is still here.
Howlround (Chapter XI) by frostygossamer
The brothers guide Ellen back to the mess hall and they all flop down at the table. Dean pours Ellen a shot of whiskey as a pick-me-up and has one himself. As Sam hands Ellen the first-aid kit, he shoots Dean a disapproving look, which he ignores. Ellen downs the liquor and relaxes with a long sigh.
Dean gets down to business. "We had to take Campbell out. We've been, uh, keeping tabs on him for a while. Guy was a dangerous psycho. Seems like he was poisoning your core samples with some lethal new strain of, um, Bird Flu, Ebola, or worse. He planned to hold the Australian government and the rest of the world to ransom."
"Yeah, and it looks like the douchebag offed Roy, Walt and Walker when they got in his way," Sam adds as an afterthought, eyeing his brother who nods.
"Holy freakin' Moses!" gasps Ellen, accepting a second shot.
She knocks back the slug and searches out a tube of burn cream in the kit. Unbuttoning her shirt a little more, she begins to apply it to her damaged skin.
"Yeah, and now we gotta sterilize the entire station to prevent the contagion spreading." Sam is getting into their cover story now.
Dean's eyes are drawn inexorably to Ellen's cleavage. He finds it kind of distracting. She knows it.
"Uh, um," he stammers, then forces his mind back on topic. "We, uh, can't take any chances. It's gonna need some serious explosives. We gotta purge the whole site."
Ellen, as a microbiology specialist, gets the importance of locking the station down and preserving the purity of the Antarctic Zone. Hell, they are supposed to take their waste back home when they leave. No way can they leave deadly contamination behind. Take nothing but pictures; leave nothing but footprints, the ecologist's motto.
"Copy, boys," she agrees. "I can help. Rufus showed me some of his tricks with C-4."
They rapidly calculate how many charges they will need to vaporize the ice-station. After a time, Sam begins to watch his brother curiously.
"Guess we got this in hand. So, uh, why are you still here?" he wonders.
"No freakin' clue," Dean replies.
Sometimes he wishes he listened to Kevin more but the kid's sciency stuff got dull real fast.
Ellen casually asks, "By the bye, what happened to Rufus and Bobby?"
Sam's eyes narrow. "They tried to make it to the explosives store but they never came back."
A sudden doubt makes him glance questioningly at Dean, but his brother makes a hand gesture with forefinger and thumb.
"Campbell," he mouths.
Sam curses softly. He liked Singer and his pal Turner, two guys old enough to see life for the big joke it is. Dean gets up from the table and moves across the room out of Ellen's earshot, motioning for Sam to follow. They confab by the coffeemaker.
"What've we missed?" Dean hisses. "The demons are all toast, right? I oughta be nothing but a wet dream by now."
That metaphor disturbs Sam in more than one way. Before he can comment, they are interrupted by Ellen.
"Hey, boys, what about the doc? Has anyone looked in on Crowley lately? I was gonna go take him some hot soup. He's gotta be freezing his ass off out there. Even a condemned man needs to eat."
Dean's ears prick up. "Crowley's the little guy I popped on the noodle, right?"
Sam's mouth drops open. "You- YOU whacked Doc Crowley over the head? Damn it, we all thought he was talking crap back when we figured HE killed Walt."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Earth to Sam? That was me. I killed Walt. Where's Crowley?"
"We locked him in the snowcat garage with the bodies of the, uh, your victims."
Sam's brother twists his face and heaves an disbelieving sigh.
"You locked up the creepy guy ALONE in an isolated freakin' shack? Are you crazy? Jeez, I SAW this movie."
"What freakin' movie?"
Dean raises his eyes to heaven at his supposedly intelligent kid brother's slow-wittedness.
"'What movie?' 'The Thing', you dumb-ass. That guy they left in the shack alone? It turns out he was a freakin' thing-monster all the damn time. We gotta get out there and waste his demonic ass like yesterday."
Sam humphs. Sometimes his brother's obsession with the horror movie genre worries him.
"Dean, this is NOT some movie. If YOU killed Walt then Doc Crowley's an innocent man. We gotta go let him free."
"Like hell we'll let him go free," growls Dean. "We gotta neutralize his skanky ass before he builds himself a freakin' anti-gravity machine, or whatever, and hightails it outta here with that Croatoan crap."
Not entirely convinced and continuing to grumble, Sam stomps to his room to get his snow gear back on.
~O~
Outside the blizzard has worsened again and the corrugated hut is near invisible from where the Winchesters stand in the main building's entrance. Sam prods his brother and hands him a pair of goggles. Without protection the dizzying flurry of snow may temporarily blind them. The hut's padlock key from Campbell's office safe is in his pocket. He passes his brother the end of the rope he has lashed around his own waist.
"Put these on and tie this around yourself. Keep directly behind me. This is the stuff they call White Death. Guy could get completely lost in ten paces."
Dean scoffs but does as he is told. He can't argue with Sam as he has already experienced how easy it is to get disoriented in a snowstorm half as thick as this.
They set off to trudge the two hundred some yards to the other building one arduous step at a time, Dean walking in his larger brother's sizeable boot marks. They continue to argue throughout the short trip until they pull up at the stoutly padlocked door of the garage and pause to listen.
Surprisingly, sounds of industry greet them from inside the hut.
After listening at the garage door for a couple minutes, Sam turns to his brother. Dean is shading his eyes with a gloved hand as he scours the snow-veiled sky for albatrosses. Sam bats his hand away and leans close to his ear.
"What the hell you think he's doing in there?"
"Building a scale model of Noah's Ark from toothpicks?" suggests Dean, sarcastically.
The muted sound of a raised voice floats from inside. Doc Crowley is issuing orders.
"Hey, butterfingers, pick that up. Do I have to do everything myself? Gimme that. Now go and install the ignition system before I install my boot up your arse. Call yourself a mechanic? And you! Put down that bloody crate and come over here. I need a tech for this."
"Who's he talking to?" Sam dreads the obvious answer.
"Who else? Walt, Roy and Walker. The Evil freakin' Dead."
Sam's eyes widen. "This does NOT sound good."
He shivers, but not from the cold. So Crowley WAS a demon all along? And he seems to have reanimated the discarded empties left when Dean evicted their demon occupants. Nasty. Dean reaches inside his jacket for his demon knife.
"What I wouldn't give for a freakin' boomstick right now. Two against four? Hmm. Tough odds hand to hand."
In answer, Sam pulls a pair of Very pistols from the capacious pockets of his windbreaker.
"To signal incoming planes in bad weather. Can be lethal at close range, so I'm told."
He hands Dean a pistol and digs out a handful of Very lights, flares coloured to stand out against the snow.
Dean snorts and accepts the pistol. "Better than nothing, I guess."
The brothers load up. With a flare gun in one fist and a demon knife handy, Dean gingerly turns the key in the padlock. Sam stands behind him also armed with a pistol and Roy's knife. The lock falls open with scarcely a click.
"OK," hisses Dean. "Surprise is on our side. We go in blazing. I'll take Crowley. You deal with the mooks."
With that he takes a step back and boots in the door. It sails on its hinges, battering the corrugated wall of the hut before rebounding back to catch him on the shoulder as he barges in.
His first flare torpedoes directly for dead-eyed Z-Walt, taking his lifeless head clean off of his shoulders in a pyrotechnic show of blood-red flash and flame. Z-Walt's body takes another step before falling like a felled tree. Dean quickly loads another.
"Jeez," gasps Dean. "Zombies were all we freakin' needed."
Sam piles in behind him as his brother's gaze seeks out Crowley. Z-Roy shambles across the room moaning, hands reaching for Sam's throat. Sam dives for his knees, pulling him down to the damp cement floor. Z-Roy groans manically as Sam drives his demon knife into his jugular. But he doesn't stop thrashing.
"Of course he won't die," Sam scolds himself. "Already dead, remember?" he grunts, on his knees fumbling with his pistol. "Freakin' World War Z!"
Dean rushes Crowley with his demon knife but the demonic doctor uses the lumbering fish-eyed hulk that used to be Walker as an inhuman shield. Z-Walker knocks the blade from Dean's hand with a blind wave of his arm. Dean rapidly fires his second flare. It only takes off Z-Walker's arm and explodes in a shower of azure sparks against a stack of crates. Crowley has dodged out of shot.
"Crap!" Dean growls.
Z-Roy's hands are tightening on Sam's neck as he pressed the muzzle of his Very pistol up against the zombie's already ravaged throat. Sam grits his teeth and pulls the trigger. There is a dull muffled 'fumpf' and Z-Roy falls in two parts, body limp as a rag doll, head rolling disgustingly aside. Sam gets to his feet, brushing golden sparkles from his stomach, and hurriedly loads another flare as he looks around for his brother.
"Hell no!" Sam's heart sinks. "Dean!"
The little doctor is as slippery as soap and Z-Walker is a higher-functioning zombie than Z-Walt. Z-Walker has pinned Dean against the big cat, smashing first the flare gun then knife from his grip. Crowley jeers as Z-Walker's white teeth sink into their captive's neck.
"Sam!" A groan of warning bursts from Dean's throat.
Abruptly, Sam steps up behind Z-Walker and busts a cap in his spine. Sparks shoot from the belly of his corpse like a fountain of emerald pyrotechnics. Z-Walker's backbone cracks and he slumps to the floor. His knees smashing on the concrete, he sprawls slack at Dean's feet.
Dean rubs his neck. The skin is torn, but that can't matter now. The zombie spittle won't affect him till he sleeps and there will be no time to sleep if they are going to get off of this island continent alive.
Crowley makes for the door, reckless enough to run out into the deadly storm. He struggles to make three or four steps before falling forward on his face in the deepening snowdrifts. Dean catches him up and drags him back inside by the collar of his snow-jacket.
"Uh-uh. You're staying right here, buddy."
Sam scoops Dean's knife off of the floor and hands it to his brother. Dean takes it delicately and wraps his fingers around the hilt.
"Looks like you demons' ugly freakin' plan has been one massive fail. We dealt with Campbell and his pack of hell-spawn. Now there's only you left. Feel special?"
He growls and presses the tip of his demon knife against the smaller guy's throat.
Crowley's eyes bulge. "Easy there, tiger," he gasps.
Sam feels uneasy about the murderous look in his brother's eyes. Perhaps the doctor could be of some use to them alive.
"Wait up," he interrupts. "What exactly did you need those three zombies for?"
"Parts and labour," grunts Crowley. "It's not like they were doing anything, lying around gathering dust. So I thought, why not upcycle."
"Parts," repeats Dean, curling his lip. "Freakin' douchebag."
"Well, not parts precisely. Raw materials. I needed their blood. Dead men's blood - no go. Zombie blood - strictly low octane but..."
"Why?" demands Sam, slightly disgusted. "What in hell would you need ANY kinda blood for?"
Crowley squirms. Dean is holding him so high his feet barely touch the ground.
"Call off your ape here and I'll tell you. You may find it interesting."
Sam puts his hand on Dean's arm. After a moment, Dean relaxes his hold on the bogus doctor a scooch and sets him on his heels. Crowley straightens his collar.
"It's my ticket out of this gobforsaken fag end of Gondwanaland. It's-"
"Fuel for an anti-gravity machine! What did I say?" cuts in Dean, triumphantly. "You built yourself some kinda hoodoo escape vehicle that burns that crap."
Sam is puzzled. "So you can't just, I dunno, wriggle your goddamn nose and 'zap' your ass wherever?"
"If only," Crowley sighs. "You see, boys, there's no support for long range magic down here in the Antarctic. Dead continent, hmm? No ley lines. No stone circles. No ancient burial grounds. No spirits. No occult power to tap into. Nada. So no, no vehicle. And I can't 'zap' myself anywhere. If it wasn't for the residual lifeforce in this natty meatsuit and the reviving power of a good oolong I wouldn't even be here now."
"So those black smokers...?" Dean wonders aloud. He has seen that demon smoke-out ploy more than once.
"So much Scotch Mist, my friends." Crowley shakes his head and cracks a smile. Evidently that tickles him.
"You were gonna book it outta here all by your snaky-ass self," summarizes Sam.
"Certainly," agrees Crowley. "Hey, I was only sent here to audit the show. This one was Campbell's gig. He could sink or swim by his own efforts. I wouldn't lose any sleep."
Trust the fuglies to have no sense of solidarity.
"Campbell and his stooges, they could go whistle, huh?"
Crowley laughs. "They seemed to run into a titchy little snag. Namely an 'interstellar' visitor with a taste for murder. Once it began taking the pawns off the board I thought I'd leave them to it." He glances toward Dean. "I suppose that would be you, the fresh face around here. A little too pretty for a spacemonster, I'd say."
Dean doesn't appreciate the compliment and growls at him under his breath. The demon doc shoots Sam an imploring look and holds up his hands.
"Dunno about you boys, but I'm ready to make a brisk exit from this icy wasteland. What do you say? The fires of Hell have never seemed more appealing. I'm feeling more than a little homesick."
"Without a vehicle, how're you gonna work that?" snaps Dean.
"Ah," Crowley smirks. "A little trick we call a 'Goblet of Blood'. That's why I needed those three quarts of zombie type A from my merry men here. Old magic but very reliable. With the wind in the right direction, I can raise Hell even from here and have THEM summon ME back home."
He kicks aside a tarp revealing a large shallow bowl of turgid blood. The bowl is decorated with intricate figuring in silver.
"I supersized and used pure silver sigils to boost the mojo up to eleven. Only problem was, not a lot of pure silver to hand. Had to melt down the little keepsakes I confiscated from Walker for the figuration. And I was about to try making a call downstairs when you two clods stormed in with your size 12 boots."
Dean isn't taking any of this on board. "That's a crock of crap, Crowley."
Crowley glances down at the bowl of fetid fluid and shrugs.
"You could call it that," he admits then raises one eyebrow. "And a magic feather ISN'T?"
Dean hisses. How does this guy know about Kevin's heirloom feather? "How do you-?"
"What?" Crowley laughs. "You didn't think you were dealing with some new discovery of science? Angel feathers are very, VERY old magic. Black Arts 101, lovey."
Dean scowls. Even Kevin couldn't argue his feather's powers could be explained by regular physics.
Sam jumps in. "OK. Bottom line. This stink pond IS your ticket outta here, right? You call up your contact downstairs and he whisks your ass outta here. Got any contacts Earthside? On the mainland?" He glances meaningfully at Dean.
Crowley sees where he is going and taps his nose with a finger. "That isn't entirely impossible."
That is all Dean needs to hear. As much as he would like to end this demon along with the rest, getting Sam out of Dodge is his first priority. Whatever that takes.
"OK that's it, buttface. We're cleaning up this station then you're gonna take us ALL back to the mainland Demon Air. Where you go on after the party is your own business."
Crowley weighs up the situation. 'Live to fight another day' has always been his watchword.
He chuckles. "Boys, I guess you have a deal."
~O~
They make their way back to the main building. Fortunately the blizzard has again stopped momentarily so they find their way without much difficulty. They run into Ellen beside the main entrance suited up, waiting anxiously for them to get back. She is wearing shades and leaning on a large red plastic toboggan.
"What's happening?" she asks Sam, pulling on her gloves.
"Ellen, it looks like the doc was working with Campbell all along. Dean's gonna keep an eye on him while I go to Rufus's store and get what we need."
"Coming with you," Ellen insists. "Found a sled. Oughta make things easier."
They set off in the direction of the store, Ellen trailing the toboggan behind her.
After watching them disappear into the misty distance, Dean walks Crowley inside the station with a Very pistol pressed against his back, his hand on the demon knife in his own pocket.
"C'mon, douche. We got work to do."
~O~
Sam and Ellen have slogged about halfway to Turner's store when they spot a figure floundering in the snow. Ellen abandons her sled to hurry ahead, only to discover it is Singer white as ash, his whiskers encrusted with ice crystals and with his right arm in a makeshift sling. His right glove is sodden with blood.
"Bobby, what the heck happened to you?" demands Ellen.
She pulls the swooning man against her shoulder for support.
"Campbell," croaks Singer. "The dirtbag pulled a gun on me and Rufus. I went down hard and passed out. When I came to, couple minutes ago, I really thought Rufus was dead, poor guy."
"Campbell? He shot you guys? Jeez!"
"Yeah, and left us to bleed out. Luckily it was so damn cold in there our heart rates musta slowed right the hell down. Rufus is alive but he's comatose. Needs help ASAP."
Sam arrives with the sled in tow.
"Don't worry about that sleaze Campbell," Ellen is telling Singer. "He got a taste of his own damn medicine. Can you make it to the admin block while we go see to Rufus? Sam's brother'll look after you there."
Singer stares up at Sam, confused. Last he heard Sam's brother was back in the US. "Your brother? How'd-"
"It's a long story." Sam grins.
They let Singer hobble on his way and trudge on to the explosives store. Inside they find Turner unconscious. Singer has thrown some sacking over him but he is as cold as death. Ellen checks his breathing with a small mirror. He IS breathing but only just. Sam steps up.
"I'll load him on the sled while you get the whiz-bangs."
He carefully lifts Turner's limp body onto the red plastic tea tray. Ellen comes back with couple cases of C-4 which they add to the sled. Then they begin the slow trudge back to the station.
They catch up with Singer a hundred yards from the main block. He has almost ground to a stop and is mightily relieved to see them.
"Ain't you two a sight..." he gasps.
TBC
A/N: Great, more survivors (hopefully). And Crowley can be a help too. Sometimes. A little more soon.