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Gunner cocked his head like he heard something and almost smiled.
Sam grimaced. “What?”
Dean couldn’t hear them, but well. He could always hear them. “Hell hounds.”
“I always wondered what they’d sound like,” Gunner said.
He and Dean shared a look. Then Dean ducked his head before offering Gunner his gun, the grip facing the doomed wrestler. “Listen, man. You, uh—”
Gunner pushed the gun down gently. “No.” His voice rasped with regret, with resolve. “I’ve never been a good man. I look in the mirror, and I hate the face looking back at me. No, I, uh. I got this coming.”
Gunner took a small step toward Dean, grabbed the front of his jacket and clutched it for a moment before he leaned in, clasped Dean’s neck, and kissed him, quick, rough. Dean stared at him, his eyes wide. Then Gunner patted him once, twice, on the cheek and backed away. “Come on. Get out.” He handed Sam the knife. “Now!”
Dean took one last look. That had been his hero. Then he led the way out, while Gunner turned to face his choices.