A/N: remember like two months ago when 8x15 aired and i was like yeah i'm gonna write a witches au
well here it is finally
going to post the prologue and the first 3 chapters right away; after that, it proceeds at normal speed
hope you enjoy :D

Prologue

"Something's wrong. She never blocks me out like this."

Dean was unable to say anything to quell the trembling urgency in his brother's tone as they made their way for the door. He didn't know anything about the connection between a witch and a familiar other than what he'd heard from others who did; he didn't understand how this whole mental mind-meld thing worked. According to what Sam had told him, though, familiar and witch were constantly aware of each other's general mental frame of mind. "I thought you could always read her mind or something."

Sam shook his head, eyes trained ahead on the door. "When we first Bonded, before we really knew each other, sometimes she kept stuff from me, but she hasn't closed herself off like that in…"

He trailed off. They'd reached the door, which was open a few inches. The handle was hanging off its screws and there were splintered dents in the wood frame as though it had been beaten in with the butt of a shotgun.

"Jess," breathed Sam, eyes wide.

Dean's brain was in tactical war mode. While they were gone, someone had broken into Sam and Jess's house. The intruder's car was still in the drive, which meant he was still here, whoever he was. They should sneak in to conserve the element of surprise and arm themselves with whatever—

Too late. Sam had already slipped through the door, his gigantic frame vanishing into the darkness of the house and footsteps pounding down the hall. With a muttered curse, Dean followed, his instincts now thrumming with imminent danger.

Dean heard Sam's footsteps thundering up the stairs ahead of him and followed his brother blindly up the steps, stumbling in the dark. A thin line of light at the top showed that the master bedroom was occupied. Sam didn't even hesitate. He ran for the door, threw it open so fast that it banged against the wall, and stopped short with a look of horror.

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder to see a stranger holding a bottle engraved with black magic symbols and filled with an unidentifiable liquid. He was muttering a rapid incantation in Latin, beady eyes flicking up to the brothers as he spoke. In Sam and Jess's house, where witchcraft was a business, this wasn't such an oddity; however, both brothers easily recognized from the state of the bottle and the words being spoken that this spell in particular was used to kill witches. Sure enough, there was Jess, gagged and bound with iron shackles to a chair, her eyes round and terrified as tears streamed down her face. She was positioned directly between the stranger and the door as a shield against the two boys.

Dean made the connection immediately: whoever the stranger was, he was a hunter, and he had come to kill Jess.

Sam tensed and took a half-step towards the hunter, who fisted his hand in Jess's hair, jerking her head back. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut. Sam stopped with an expression akin to the one he'd made when he sprained his ankle two years ago and had to limp back to the car so they could get him to the hospital. Dean wanted to scream, What are you doing? He's going to kill her anyway! But he didn't want to be the one to make the first move, just in case there was a chance—any chance in Hell—that that hunter would let her go.

"Please…" There was as much agony in Sam's voice was there was in his face. "Please, don't…"

The hunter's face twisted a little into what he must've thought was a smile. "Sorry, kid, but your girl Jess here's a witch."

Dean knew he might just make things worse, but he couldn't help himself. "Look, pal, this ain't The Crucible and you ain't John Hale, so why don't you shut the fuck up and let the girl go?"

The hunter's eyes—cruel and now slightly irritated—switched to Dean. "Why should I? And don't tell me she's some goody-two-shoes white magic healer. She's sold her soul to the Devil, same as any other blood-sacrificing demon-worshiper out there."

"No." Sam was shaking his head, pleading with his eyes. "No, she's not like that. She's never killed anyone, please—"

The hunter struck a match.

"No—no! JESS!" shouted Sam, starting forward.

Jess's eyes met Dean's, and he could see by the look in them exactly what she was trying to say: Take Sam and go! That was why she'd blocked him out; she didn't want him to know what was happening because she didn't want him to get hurt, too.

Then the hunter dropped the match into the bottle and dumped its flaming contents over Jess's head. Where it touched her, smoke rose in a thick cloud, distorting her features, but even obscured by the mist it was obvious she was in pain. There was a piercing scream as fire seemed to flicker under her skin, burning her away inside-out. In a quick burst of flames, she was gone, leaving behind nothing but ash and silence.

Dean stared in shock. Not Jess. Of all the grimy low-life witches out there, why had it been Jess?

Sam snarled—literally snarled. He wasn't a man anymore but had transformed, taking the shape of the massive, shaggy brown dog he occasionally manifested as. He lunged for the hunter, but Dean grabbed him and hauled him back, because he'd just seen the flash of silver in the hunter's hand, just spotted the symbols on the jagged knife and recognized it. He'd heard rumors about it, rumors that said it could kill just about anything short of an angel. One stab was all it would take, and Sam would follow his witch into oblivion.

Sam's snarls turned into barks and he even tried snapping at Dean's hands to get free, but Dean refused to let go. The hunter watched them smugly but did nothing as Dean dragged Sam back by the scruff. Dean was almost tempted to just let the guy have it, but he couldn't, not with that knife in his hands. He wouldn't let Sam risk his life like that for the sake of vengeance.

"Sammy—Sam, come on, there's nothing you can do!" Dean's yell was nearly drowned out by Sam's wild, frenzied barking. He threw his weight against the dog's straining, putting all his effort into keeping the monstrous canine from taking another step. This was no easy task, of course, since the dog easily weighed over a hundred pounds and was fighting against Dean's grip as though his life depended on it. Sam dug his paws in, resisting every step as Dean dragged him down the stairs, but on that front, even gravity was against him. Dean managed to get Sam out the front door, but nearly lost his grip as Sam lunged back towards the house with renewed vigor. Foam was flinging from his jaws now, his eyes white crescents in the dark. His normally deep, booming woofs had escalated to frantic baying, high-pitched and unrelenting and sure to wake the dead.

"Sam, listen to me, she's gone!" Dean's voice cracked unexpectedly. It hurt like hell to say it because he knew it was the last thing either of them wanted to hear, but he couldn't let Sam run back into that house. The words didn't seem to affect Sam in the slightest. He seemed dead-set on running back in there and giving that hunter a taste of his fangs, so focused on the red-hot need to avenge Jess that nothing else could get through to him. Dean was succeeding, for now, in pulling Sam away, but it was a slow struggle, and his arms were already burning from the effort.

There was a sudden flare in the dark that finally caused both dog and man to fall silent. Dean was so shocked for a moment that his grip on Sam fell slack, but Sam, apparently similarly affected, stood stock-still, unaware of his renewed freedom. The house had caught fire—or been set on fire, Dean suspected, since it seemed an unlikely coincidence—and the flames were spreading quickly. Within a minute the entire first floor was engulfed in heat.

The silence roared in Dean's ears in the absence of Sam's barking, and the crackling flames did nothing to fill it. He couldn't believe what he'd just seen. This kind of thing happened every once in a while to the more audacious witches—hunters turned up out of nowhere, and bam, one spell and that was it, kaput. But Jess, of all people—sweet, cookie-baking, dog-loving Jess—why her?

He was so lost for a moment that he didn't notice Sam's absence until the dog had torn straight through the door, apparently undaunted by the fact that the entire place felt like an oven. Just standing within five feet of the house, Dean felt like a marshmallow on a stick—and he didn't even have a fur coat. Nevertheless, he threw his jacket to the ground and ducked in after Sam, trying to ignore the fact that it would be healthier for his lungs to put his mouth over an exhaust pipe. He could've sworn that the flames were bending towards him, lapping hungrily for his skin.

He'd never been to Hell—and personally hoped he never would—but he imagined if he did, it would look a lot like this. The flames flared dully through a screen of cloudy gray. The smoke was in his mouth, his nose, inside of his lungs, scratching at his throat and mouth and suffocating him. Even the sound was smothering; the snapping and whooshing filled his ears so that he couldn't even hear his own voice calling out, much less any noise Sam might've been making. Everything around him was being slowly devoured by the fire, burnt to crispy black husks that curled into embers. Pictures, curtains, wallpaper, furniture. An entire lifetime, gone. This had been Sam's home—hell, even Dean could call it a temporary nesting place of sorts. Dean had always kind of secretly envied Sam for his ability to settle down like this, and he'd missed the days when it was just the two of them, but he'd never wanted this. Jess was a good chick—and Sam had loved her.

He found the dog at the foot of the stairs, running from side to side trying to find a way past the creaking, flaming rafters that had fallen in his path. Dean couldn't hear him barking, but he could see his mouth moving in rapid-fire, white flashes of teeth in the dark. He kept shoving his nose into small gaps and yelping when it came away singed.

Dean knew there was no possibility of them getting past, even if Jess was still alive somehow. And the hunter—well, if he'd set the fire, then he was probably long gone. Even now, the house was showing signs of imminent collapse. They had to get out as soon as possible, but he knew there was no way in hell Sam was gonna leave willingly. Hell, he'd burn his nose to a nub before giving up on Jess.

As soon as Dean reached the dog—which was, by now, practically howling—he swooped down, wrapping strong arms around the canine and hauling him up in his arms. Sam's immense weight made this an extremely difficult feat, which was no further aided by his constant struggling and wriggling as Dean slowly, excruciatingly, stumbled his way back through the house.

The front door felt like an impossibly long distance away. Dean was beginning to think the smoke would choke him before he reached it. His arms were shaking and he almost dropped Sam a few times as the dog twisted violently in his grip. Finally, coughing, he emerged into fresh air, taking great gasping gulps of the cold breeze.

Two steps into the grass and there was a sound like lightning touching down right behind him. A split-second later and a giant fist seemed to slam into him, knocking him forward with such force that he simply lay sprawled in the grass for a minute, stunned, his head spinning and his ears ringing. Every sound seemed suddenly distant and compressed, as though he was wearing earplugs.

He lifted his head and turned, trying to ignore the throbbing nausea that action produced, and his eyes struggled to focus on the house—or what was left of it. It took him a moment to realize that a good portion of the building had just exploded, leaving nothing but the splintered remains of the frame and the last dust of falling debris.

Sam. He looked around to see his brother, still four-legged, lying on his side in the dirt. The explosion seemed to have stunned him. He stirred weakly as Dean wrapped burnt arms around his furry frame and dragged him away, but made no attempt to resist. The keening whines in his throat shifted abruptly to the sound of sobbing as Sam's form became suddenly heavier, the fur under Dean's fingers melting into skin and fabric. Sam, his brother, all six-foot-five of him, was a human again and was as limp in Dean's arms as a wet rag—a shivering, whimpering wet rag that was making hoarse noises like a wounded animal.

They were a sufficient enough distance away that Dean gave up trying to pull him farther and simply dropped down, drawing his brother into his arms. He was tired and aching and he was pretty sure his arms had been cut with glass from the window, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. Sam needed him now more than any other time in his life, needed him to be the reassuring older brother.

Sam gave himself to his grief, his tears spreading a wet patch across Dean's shirt like blood from a wound. The sounds of his misery, raw and broken, grated on Dean's ears. He tucked his head into Sam's hair, hoping his brother wouldn't notice the tears streaming down his face, too. He was crying just as much for Jess as he was for Sam's loss. Dean had never been Bonded to a witch, but he'd heard plenty about it from other familiars, how they form an immovable partnership. Sam had even told Dean once how he and Jess would die for each other. For Sam to lose her must've been like losing half of his soul.

He tried to get his grief under control, shut out the memories of her that were threatening to overwhelm him. The first dinner they'd all had together, the various spells they'd worked, all the nights he'd spent watching old movies on their TV and munching freshly-baked cookies—he packed it away, forgot about it for now. He needs me to be strong, Dean kept telling himself. Sam was clinging to him and Dean was clinging back just as tightly, feeling guilty for being so grateful that Sam, at least, had been spared.

They sat there like that for Dean didn't know how long, Sam's sobs wracking his whole frame, Dean encompassing him in his arms and holding him as closely as he could. He had no way of telling time, but he guessed it was at least twenty minutes before Sam finally extracted himself from his older brother's arms, quivering like a boy whose puppy had run away.

Despite Sam's obvious fragility, it was a pair of determined, hatred-filled eyes that met Dean's, and he could guess what was about to be said before it was spoken: "I'm going to track down that hunter, Dean. I'm going to track him down and rip out his throat myself." Sam's voice was unsteady and cracked in several places, but there was raw anger underneath that kindled a pleasant sort of bloodlust in Dean's gut.

Dean nodded grimly. "We'll find that son of a bitch and we'll give him hell."