A/N: There is no real explanation for this, so take it as ye will.

Warnings: Violence, Dubious Consent

The first time the man took him, he was afraid. Hands had torn open his shirt, gripped at pale skin until bruises blossomed, slapped his face until he cried. It was punishment, he was told as teeth sank into his skin until he screamed.

You want to be redeemed, don't you?

He knew he did; he didn't know why, but it was what he wanted. His pants were yanked down, the rough scrape of bed sheets against his backside as the man hooked his arms beneath his knees and dragged him to the edge. The man slid into him with nothing but spit to ease the way, but he didn't mind. This was redemption.

I know who you are. I can save you.

It was all right then, if he cried when the man's hand gripped his wrist and he grunted into him. It was all right if the hand around his cock and he could only stare up in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock. He could only stare as the man bent over him, clung to him until he finished and they were both sticky and slick.

You're not him, are you?

He'd answered no because he didn't know who He was.

The second time the man took him, he was in bliss. He hadn't been able to forget it, not once. This time the man's hands were gentler, like they were searching for something in him. He didn't know if the man would find it, but he didn't stop trying. The man's hands slapped at his mouth until it bled and bruised.

You want to be punished, don't you?

He wanted it, but he didn't know why. He needed it, but he didn't know why. Had he done something? Was he bad? To that, the man had only smiled sad and small before he shoved his way into his mouth, slapping him again and again while he drove his hips forward.

I know he's there. I can find him.

Then he'd only given a dazed smile. What else could he do? The taste of the man was sweet and bitter, bittersweet on his tongue, something familiar, something he knew, but he didn't know why or how. There were many things he didn't know anymore.

You're not him, are you?

He'd answered no because then he would have been anyone to get that taste back on his tongue.

The third time the man took him, he was indifferent. Too much time had passed, he was unwanted for so long. Just when he thought he had something that was his, it disappeared. Until he was needed again, to reassure the man that the world was still real.

You want to be touched, don't you?

Yes, he did, he always did. He'd grown addicted to it, needed it fiendishly, craved for it day and night. And when it didn't come, he felt empty, useless. But the man understood. His fists rained down brutally, pound after pound and his blood sang.

I know who you are. I can show you.

The man had cradled him gentle then, touched each bruise with reverence, each caress an apology without words. But he had no use for apologies, not when he was still so empty, not when something so important was still missing.

You're not him, are you?

He'd answered no because he didn't know who he was.

The fourth time the man took him, he was confused. His hands were bound behind his back pulling him straining him. Something burst free from him, something great and terrible and out of control. The man had just smiled like he was seeing an old friend.

You want to be seen, don't you?

The man's fists had come at him even harder, pulling at the things behind him, attached to him, a part of him until they bled. Fingers dug in, scratched, tore at his flesh until his knees buckled. And still the man just smiled.

I know what you are. I can see you.

He didn't know what the man saw, what he thought was there, but it couldn't be him. He sang with pain, but the man just gripped him tighter, forced him before a mirror, showed him the appendages there, broken and bloody and frail. But it had only been another test for him to fail.

You're not him, are you?

He'd answered no because he didn't know what he was anymore.

The fifth time the man took him, he was angry. The man met his anger blow by blow, tied a tie around his eyes, pushed him down into hard concrete floors. His face ground down into it with merciless hands that refused to let up.

You want to be lost, don't you?

No, he didn't, he couldn't take it. His vision swam with black, reminding – yet not reminding him – of things he needed to forget. Of black ooze cover his soul, taking away everything that was good and pure in him until he was covered in the tar of it.

I know you remember. I can feel you.

The man was brutal again, flesh driving into flesh, hands at his neck holding him down with an unrelenting grip. Hips pounded against his own, refusing to let up, holding him down as he struggled, growled, fought.

You're not him, are you?

He'd answered no because he wasn't sure anymore he ever wanted to be.

The sixth and last time the man took him, he was happy. As always, fists rained down on him until he bled, until bruises circled and dotted his skin. Then, he'd only been searching, trying to find himself, to find an end to it, to both their suffering.

You want to come back, don't you?

He did, desperately, only he didn't know where he'd gone. The man had been determined, lips pursed into a straight line, completely focused in his task. But his eyes were sad, lonely, lost. He knew that look, had seen it in the mirror and he wanted so badly to be who the man needed him to be.

I know you're there. I can hear you.

When it happened it was like light bursting in his eyes, drowning him, blinding him, hurting him until he thought he might just die. He thought it might be the end of his existence, for certain this time. He worried for the man with the sad green eyes.

You're him, aren't you?

He'd answered yes because he was home again.

"Cas?"