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It was supposed to be a quick and easy case, and it almost was, until three patrol cars pulled up out front while they were still doing cleanup. Now Dean's scanning his mental map of the place, counting potential ground floor exits. He can only hope the fence around the back yard is scalable by normal humans. They can hear the tinny call and response of the police radios outside as the officers coordinate their entrance to the scene.
He sweeps the last bits of monster into a big black trash bag and knots it, then tugs on Cas's sleeve. A jerk of his head – this way, c'mon – and they scuttle out of the front parlor and down a dim hallway to the back of the house.
For once, their luck is good – the kitchen has a back door that opens onto the yard, and the fence is easy enough to hop. Once clear of the property, Dean grimaces in displeasure and hugs the lumpy trash bag close to his body to keep it from rustling. Then they tear ass into the nearby woods.
The Impala is parked half a mile down the road, in a parking lot at the head of a public hiking trail. They make the journey as quickly and quietly as possible, eyes down to spot noisy dead leaves and treacherous tree roots. Even once they're in the car, Dean rolls her out in neutral, coasting down the rough track to the main road. There's no sound except the crunch of gravel under her tires and the gentle squeak of her suspension. Once they hit macadam, though, he guns the engine to life and floors it. They cross the county line in five minutes and only then can they start to unclench.
The adrenaline rush from their near-miss starts to wane, and neither of them wants to drive another five hours to get home. The first two motels they pass have their No Vacancy signs lit, but they press on in search of a bed. Dean has a feeling the third time will be the charm.