Dean's jaw tightened; he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he pulled the trigger. The shots were dead on, a tight cluster of three shots to the head. Dean didn't jerk; in fact, he seemed to be doing what he was made to do. The hunter wished it wasn't something he had to do; he was definitely made to kill, which hurt somehow to know. He wouldn't be praised for what he did; he wouldn't be a hero. Hell, he probably wouldn't tell anyone at all that this was how it happened.
The wolf went down, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't going to have to do more. At least more shooting. He needed clear eyes and a steady hand for that. What came next was hard. The beast deserved a proper send off, only after he made sure that everything was done to prevent it from coming back.
He pulled out his larger knife, and set to hacking off the head. He followed that with opening up the wolf's chest and digging out the heart. All the bits and pieces kept far apart. He knew he would be in the Park for the rest of the night because he was going to stand watch over the funeral pyre that he started to build once the gory job was done.
The wolf deserved more than the send off it was getting. Dean didn't try to hide the tears because there was no one there to watch him. He was covered in dirt, blood, and gore. He smelled like kerosene, fire, and death. And his heart hurt because he'd had to kill something that gave itself willingly to save others. He would have kept one of the wolf's fangs to remember it by, but he didn't know if the fang was enough to start another outbreak.